Louise W.
Yelp
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I came here with my mother, on Mothers' Day, which seems perilously close to tautology until you realise that although the restaurant demographic did divide down the kind of age-gap you'd expect on Mothers' Day, those on either side of it kept to themselves. Which is a fancy way of saying that there were older couples, and younger couples, and one pair of teenage love-birds who looked to have hit adolescence only slightly later than our sommelier, but no mothers. Or at least not acting ones.
"Mothers have lunches," said mine, helpfully. "Scones, jam, tea, and lunches. Not dinners." Who knew?
It turned out they also have strong opinions about cocktails. I failed to tempt her with a veritable nosegay of a violet and ginger-infused champagne cocktail (because mothers like florals, too, right? Not mine.); and since I wasn't ready, either, to experience "kicks like a mule, scented like a Victorian" (the greatest line Johnny Cash never wrote) as a flavour-combination, we both settled on the Corsica: a deliciously, tooth-rottingly sweet confection of amaretto, date liqueur, and champagne sufficiently dry, if you can believe it, to claw the whole thing back from sickliness.
Among the hotel's most lauded features is its underground bar (and I mean that not in the sense of blind pigs or New Wave electronica; it's where the wine-cellars used to be), impressive not least for the feats of adjective-shuffling ingenuity it inspires in hotel reviewers and PR writers alike. (To attempt a round-up, these are vaulted labyrinthine cellars [with optional atmosphere] or [optionally atmospheric] labyrinthine cellar vaults. With a healthy dose of hyperbole. On the whole, I think we can safely assume they're vaulted.) Actually, it's a terrific space; more Brambly Hedge than The Bull From the Sea, and all the nicer for it: flagstone floors and brickwork in warm, earthy hues, with muted top-notes of warehouse chic in the exposed-piping light-fittings, and intimate little cellarlets which, named after Cambridge colleges with a true du Vin deference to location, give a discreet tip of the mortarboard to my alma mater.
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The menu is sub-divided to prevent, as it were, the locally-sourced mallard from straying onto the pristine green college lawns of the vegetarian section. My mother's choice of herbed gnocchi with cauliflower velouté and wilted spinach (£12.50) felt very much like the centre-piece of that section (the pea and mint risotto could have done with a hand in the PR department, and the garden salad in the allotment - but we'll come to that in a moment.)
Eternally thankful as those of us still digesting the nut loaf we ate in 1992 must be for the gloriously rich, punchy, and, in short, Mediterranean-cribbed flavours available to the vegetarian palate nowadays (and, no, I don't mean hemp-seed loaf; did we learn nothing from the noughties?), it was refreshing to see imaginative vegetarian cookery with a few of those punches pulled. In other words, not a Périgord truffle or a glug of barolo in sight, the chef (and my mother) having opted for an very elegant, very English, springtime dish that resembled nothing more, on first sight, than a plateful of speckled quail eggs. Which, happily, is about as far as that particular analogy can take us, because judging from their lightness, these gnocchi were quenelled miles from the nearest egg. With the very notion of potato, too, passatuttoed from their genetic memory, they were coddled little pillows - the merest hint of pan-searing in the golden tiger-stripes on their undersides - perked beautifully by flecks of spinach (whose counterpart in the garnish, meanwhile, was wilted to just the right side of languid.) The velouté was trademark Hotel du Vin Egyptian linen to the gnocchi's pillows: delicately pastel-coloured and creamy in the way that asparagus is creamy, without the interference of cream; and besprinkled with dinky little cauliflower florets that demanded chivalrous scooping, being a hair's breadth too narrow to spear with a fork.
A bit of surreptitious neck-craning discovered most of our fellow diners to have gone for the gnocchi, or else something hip and rustic-looking on a board, with chips. Unduly gratified, however, to find under "Main Courses" something I'd normally have to dredge up from the far reaches of the menu or cobble together from existing ingredients ("Yes, the orange confit, please. Hold the mallard."), I bit my thumb at the universal palate and ordered the garden salad (£7.50). What I'd failed to notice was that this dish, the veritable "Where's Wally?" of salads, kept popping up all over the menu: hic et ubique, upstairs, downstairs and no doubt also in my lady's chamber, like yet another example of trespassing poultry (the gander, that is; not King Hamlet).
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