I am no food critic, however I do possess a hedonistic personality and enjoy the good things, such as food and drink. I delight in the feeling I gain from good food, good wine, and good company. I often feel I lack the sensitive palate of the professional food and wine critic, and perhaps I miss some of the more subtle nuances that they claim to detect. Moreover, I am not of a mind to analyse, criticise, and evaluate things to the extent of the professional critic, it is not my job after all. I simply love good food and drink made with care by people who care about what they do.
We have, by necessity, been taking sustenance since we were nothing more than single cells floating in the primordial soup, and delicious soup it was too. Our choice of sustenance has evolved with us of course, and has come to mean so much more to us than simply calories to fuel our bodies.
There was a point, (probably) after Homo sapiens had discovered how to create fire and begun to use it to cook their meals that one of the tribe took a few moments to think about how to cook the meat from the day’s kill so it would taste better than previously. Perhaps that ancient ancestor of you and I remembered a plant he had eaten and imagined it might improve their meal if cooked with the Mammoth haunch. The others in his or her tribe would no doubt have appreciated these efforts and that experimental Hominid would have become the tribe’s first Chef. It had to begin somewhere, and would go a long way to explaining Gordon Ramsay.
We have, by necessity, been taking sustenance since we were nothing more than single cells floating in the primordial soup, and delicious soup it was too. Our choice of sustenance has evolved with us of course, and has come to mean so much more to us than simply calories to fuel our bodies.
There was a point, (probably) after Homo sapiens had discovered how to create fire and begun to use it to cook their meals that one of the tribe took a few moments to think about how to cook the meat from the day’s kill so it would taste better than previously. Perhaps that ancient ancestor of you and I remembered a plant he had eaten and imagined it might improve their meal if cooked with the Mammoth haunch. The others in his or her tribe would no doubt have appreciated these efforts and that experimental Hominid would have become the tribe’s first Chef. It had to begin somewhere, and would go a long way to explaining Gordon Ramsay.
Appreciation of good food well cooked, and delicious beers, wines and spirits is in my DNA, and I know I am not alone, so I felt compelled to tell you about a place I visited today, a place where all these things are clearly as important to the people who run the establishment as they are to me.
The Rock Inn is a 450 year old pub nestled in a combe in the hamlet of Waterrow, Somerset, a beautiful place in its own right, and the area is well worth exploring.
We were welcomed with a smile by Daren, Chef and co-owner with his wife Ruth, and supplied with drinks by Sugar the barmaid, (yes, I am sure that was her name). We settled down with a Quantock stout for me and Luscombe’s ginger ale for Ms Crockofshit at our scrubbed table in the corner of the pub, next to the roaring log burner, and the exposed face of the 180 million year old greywacke stone against which the pub is built.
The menu is varied, consisting of traditional pub food and more contemporary dishes, and changed regularly according to the seasons, I am delighted to say that local suppliers are used wherever possible.
Ms Crockofshit declined a starter, as is her habit, (she likes to save herself for pudding) I. however could not resist the lure of wood pigeon, ensconced as we were in this ancient, cosy pub among the trees with the River Tone ambling by, it seemed the natural choice.
‘Pan fried breast of wood pigeon with black pudding on a salad of pecan nuts and salad leaves dressed with truffle oil.’
The Pigeon breast was succulent, the black pudding was spicy, almost like chorizo, and there was the added surprise of quails eggs pickled with fennel. It was finished too soon.
For her main course Ms Crockofshit opted for the duck.
‘Breast of Beechridge Farm free range duck with new season vegetables on a creamed onion puree, roasted garlic juices and truffle dauphinoise potatoes.’
Judging by the closed eyes and the moans of pleasure that I myself would be delighted to induce in her, I believe she found her meal more than acceptable.
I chose the beef.
‘Featherblade of Aberdeen Angus beef marinated in black garlic and black treacle, cooked slowly for 14 hours, with rainbow carrots and Cheddar cheese mashed potato.’
Hands down, best piece of meat I have ever eaten, it fell apart as it was cut and melted away, almost negating the need for canines, and I am usually eager to utilise mine.
For pudding we both chose the poached rhubarb with pink custard, mini meringues and shortbread. It resembled a deconstructed Barbara Cartland, and was a taste sensation.
A sybaritic experience, in an extraordinary place with excellent people, so concerned was I with my own self-indulgence, I did not have the opportunity to discover why the little girl who visited us briefly as we ate, lingers in this place so many years after her sad demise. We shall certainly return, and perhaps that is a tale for another day.
The Rock Inn is a 450 year old pub nestled in a combe in the hamlet of Waterrow, Somerset, a beautiful place in its own right, and the area is well worth exploring.
We were welcomed with a smile by Daren, Chef and co-owner with his wife Ruth, and supplied with drinks by Sugar the barmaid, (yes, I am sure that was her name). We settled down with a Quantock stout for me and Luscombe’s ginger ale for Ms Crockofshit at our scrubbed table in the corner of the pub, next to the roaring log burner, and the exposed face of the 180 million year old greywacke stone against which the pub is built.
The menu is varied, consisting of traditional pub food and more contemporary dishes, and changed regularly according to the seasons, I am delighted to say that local suppliers are used wherever possible.
Ms Crockofshit declined a starter, as is her habit, (she likes to save herself for pudding) I. however could not resist the lure of wood pigeon, ensconced as we were in this ancient, cosy pub among the trees with the River Tone ambling by, it seemed the natural choice.
‘Pan fried breast of wood pigeon with black pudding on a salad of pecan nuts and salad leaves dressed with truffle oil.’
The Pigeon breast was succulent, the black pudding was spicy, almost like chorizo, and there was the added surprise of quails eggs pickled with fennel. It was finished too soon.
For her main course Ms Crockofshit opted for the duck.
‘Breast of Beechridge Farm free range duck with new season vegetables on a creamed onion puree, roasted garlic juices and truffle dauphinoise potatoes.’
Judging by the closed eyes and the moans of pleasure that I myself would be delighted to induce in her, I believe she found her meal more than acceptable.
I chose the beef.
‘Featherblade of Aberdeen Angus beef marinated in black garlic and black treacle, cooked slowly for 14 hours, with rainbow carrots and Cheddar cheese mashed potato.’
Hands down, best piece of meat I have ever eaten, it fell apart as it was cut and melted away, almost negating the need for canines, and I am usually eager to utilise mine.
For pudding we both chose the poached rhubarb with pink custard, mini meringues and shortbread. It resembled a deconstructed Barbara Cartland, and was a taste sensation.
A sybaritic experience, in an extraordinary place with excellent people, so concerned was I with my own self-indulgence, I did not have the opportunity to discover why the little girl who visited us briefly as we ate, lingers in this place so many years after her sad demise. We shall certainly return, and perhaps that is a tale for another day.
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