Staycations at Hampton Manor

Fast forward to the end of the first night of the staycation at Hampton Manor and we’re sat in the bar, whisky in hand whilst Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’ hums away in the background. I’m on whisky number five, maybe six, each handpicked by Fraser’s impeccable taste based on my preferences. Salty, smoky numbers, I’m introduced to distilleries I never knew existed. In all we’ve had a great night; pre-drinks before dinner in their more casual offering, Smoke, then this. The food was tremendous, the setting even better as we found ourselves alone in the dimly lit vine house whilst others dined in the greenhouse and the bare-bricked Smoke to keep us socially distanced. Beetroot and goats cheese, then the softest shoulder of lamb with Dijon potatoes and hispi cabbage; all cooked in the wood fired oven which punctures the wall. Then, to finish, apple pie and custard, a bit like the one you get from the Golden Arches, only better. Washed down with paired wines of real interest. A pokey Pet Nat, a Malbec, then an iced cider. We turn down the chance to toast marshmallows over the open fire: I have whisky to drink, and drink whisky I do. At 9.50pm they give me a large measure of Lagavulin to take to bed with me. It turns out the whisky is included in the package, they just don’t make a song and dance of it. I love this place.

Rewind eight hours and we’re checking in for the long weekend. There is sanitiser and face masks for plebs like us who have left theirs at home, and a warm welcome from a team who all have hospitality at heart. A quick drop off of the bags to the room and we’re back down the stairs for Afternoon Tea in the beautiful Nyetimber summer house. It’s here we have the sausage roll of all sausage rolls, fat scones topped with jam then cream (don’t @ me), delicate strawberry tarts flavoured lightly with basil, and chocolate brownies that we take home because I don’t want to ruin dinner. We wash it down with Nyetimber. Glorious Nyetimber. When in Rome and all that.

Saturday day is when the fun really starts. My whisky head wakes me up just in time for breakfast: eggs benedict and strong black coffee for me, full English and tea for the lady. They are both perfect in a way that hotel breakfasts never are. We plod back towards the walled garden in Smoke for a masterclass in chocolate with WNDR. Ninety minutes later of chuckles and intense nodding and I’ve made my own chocolate bar. Take that, Wonka. Then back to the room, pick up map and walk around the grounds, discuss moving to Hampton in Arden, decide it’s too far away from Couch, then back to Smoke for wine tasting. James’s love of natural wine is infectious, I’ve been drawn into it before, and I’ll never tire of it. We drink a white, something more adventurous, and a red. I still know nothing because I’m drawn into a room filled with people who are keen to try something different and learn at the same time. Absolutely WNDRful. Back to the room, I need a sleep but there’s no time; we have a Michelin starred dinner. Claire gets in the bath, orders Nyetimber. Maybe there is time.

This is the third occasion I’ve eaten in Peels and my favourite so far. Rob Palmer’s food now feels like it’s entirely his; the bits of other people’s styles you could see two years back replaced by his style which feels so heavily placed within the garden walls it could be a late Monet. Four courses upgraded to the maximum seven; paired wines with each because we don’t mess around. Nibbles include the best take on a cheese and pickle sandwich I’ve tried, then a first course of cabbage five ways with caviar, followed by the potato terrine with xo butter that I’ve raved about before. That potato dish is in my top ten dishes of the year. No question.

Wagyu tartare is diced a fraction too big for my liking and is a little lost in the onion broth, but this is me nit picking. No problems at all with the grouse which is a step away from the finesse and a big slap in the face of game, as it absolutely should be. The ragout of offal interwoven with barley will live long in the memory. Then the cheese course – a different one to the menu which I’d pre-ordered because I’m an arse – which is Colston Bassett on toast and every bit as good as I’d been told (thanks Fraser). Two desserts finish us off; nitrogen frozen raspberries with cream and basil lay-up for the slam dunk that is chocolate, Sherry, and vanilla. A version of this dish was on the menu when we first ate here. This version should never leave. Three hours of solid one star cooking. I order more wine.

We check out Sunday, after the repeat breakfast and another walk around the grounds. At a starting price of £390 per person excluding drinks this isn’t cheap, but it is the most fun I’ve had all year. Hampton Manor is far more than a one star restaurant. It’s the most polished luxury hotel experience, in the most beautiful grounds, from the most hospitable of people. It’s the chance to unwind and learn, whilst eating and drinking until the bed calls. It’s a little piece of paradise. If this awful year has any positives, one must surely be that the spotlight is on our green and pleasant land. Very few places personify that in the way that Hampton do.

Pictures by the very talented and okay company Claire

Sketch, afternoon tea in the Gallery, London

I first tried to eat at Sketch three and a half years ago when I impeccably timed my reservation at their two star restaurant with being mowed down by a car outside my home. I recall the doctor visiting in my pen, me in a temporary cast up past my knee, to inform me I had broken nine bones and would be spending more time than I would have liked at hospital. I asked if in his opinion I would be fine to travel to London in less than two weeks to eat at a restaurant. He laughed in my face. Still undeterred, I contact Sketch and ask their opinion.  “Sir”, a heavily French accented lady would answer, “we have no lifts but our staff can assist you up the staircase to the restaurant”. I decide against it and instead book another restaurant in Birmingham where pain would cause me to pass out at the table mid-starter. In hindsight cancelling Sketch was probably the correct thing to do.

Since then I’ve visited on numerous occasions for very expensive cocktails, but never to eat. Until this time, when finally, after three years of waiting, I bypass the coloured stairs that take you up to the two stair restaurant and turn right into the gallery for afternoon tea. That’s me, a thirty-five year heterosexual male, having afternoon tea in a room that is decorated entirely in baby pink. Where has my life gone wrong, please, someone tell me. I wasn’t going to write about it, but when said afternoon tea comes in at £85 per head once service has been applied, I’m going to tell you all about it.

First the ambience, which Micky Flannigan was entirely correct in saying is a French word for a room too stuffy for poor people to afford. The room rammed with ladies of the world whose figures would dictate that they prioritise being seen over being fed, each with foreign accents and expensive handbags. I love it here. Champagne is poured from a great height and we are told that tea will be served in four courses. Little porcelain egg shells hold a comte mousse and confit quail egg yolk. It’s rich with plenty of cheese flavour. On the side is a little mother of pearl spoon filled with salty caviar because we are in Mayfair, Darhlin’. It’s as decadent a start as one could wish for.

We get tea – of course we do, silly – the pots fighting for room on an already bulging table. Then the main event arrives; a stack of plates; sandwiches at the bottom, sweet stuff above. From the sandwiches I swerve the smoked salmon because the stuff makes me gag, instead throwing myself into a rich duck egg mayonnaise and watercress, topped with a fried quails egg. There is pumpernickel bread with tomato and lettuce and the best coronation chicken I have ever eaten. I joke that I could eat another plate of these. Another plate appears. They get eaten. The sweets are all works of precision, from which we like the blueberry cheesecake least and a bubble-gum marshmallow that disappears all too quickly. A delicate plum tart has the kind of short pastry that Mary Berry would approve of, whilst a square of chocolate and caramel is ethereally light and addictive. Top billing is saved for a glorious choux bun with a generous measure of redcurrant cream, as good as pastry I have tried.

This being afternoon tea we got scones and jam and not enough clotted cream, all of which I neglect for more coronation chicken. I sit, shirt bulging, with the top button of my trousers loosened, stating that I couldn’t possibly eat a thing more when we are offered a fat slice of Victoria sponge. It’s delicious but too much.

So what is apparent is that £85 buys you a lot of afternoon tea. So much so that we struggle to move those arses of ours down the road to The Blind Pig for more cocktails. Looking back now it’s clear that I enjoyed it, partly because the company I kept was great and partly because it’s a polished affair with nice food. But would I do it again? Probably not. I just don’t think I’m an afternoon tea kinda guy and I’d much rather take that sum of cash elsewhere for a more serious bit of cooking. Like upstairs. Yes, next time I visit Sketch I’ll finally get up those stairs and into that two star restaurant. Unbroken and unassisted.

7/10