‘The place has already been colonised by regulars unable to believe their luck. And rightly so: I’d give my eye teeth to have this as my local’
Everybody loves a good critical savaging. My colleague over at the Observer, Jay Rayner, has written books and stage shows about the delicious shiver of schadenfreude that accompanies the hatchet job. And it’s true: give a place a kicking, and the delighted squeals of “Ouch!” pile up on social media, the web hits go bananas and everyone’s happy. (Apart, of course, from the poor saps who had the temerity to serve the curdled creme brulee to the restaurant critic.)
So I’m sorry to be the Pollyanna girlie delivering another rave. I’m sorry that this tiny neighbourhood restaurant presses every single one of the right buttons, doesn’t miss a single beat, fails signally to treat me appallingly, and sends me out into the night beaming from ear to ear like a great, Somerset apple brandy-soaked eejit.
Continue reading...