Postcard from Norfolk – Fine dining

After many years of driving past the doors of Morston Hall, hotel and restaurant, we finally got round to eating there. I knew the time was right to do so when the phrase ‘we really must eat there one day’ moved from an internal thought, through mumbling, past suggestion and finally to a chant voiced with almost Gregorian-monk like discipline by all in the car. Not to have booked at this point would have resulted in the next trip past the gates of the hotel being heralded with the same chant, but in that slightly mocking and accusing tone by the rest of my family, while I simmer internally and wonder if I am the only one able to pick up the telephone or what?

The booking was made and the night arrived. It was, I have to admit, a pleasure to dress for dinner in a suit thinking ‘I am going to look good’ rather than dress for dinner thinking ‘if I spill grease on this shirt, it won’t be a disaster’.

Not that we don’t get out much, but we were the fist non-residents to pitch up for dinner. This was in part to get maximum enjoyment from the evening and also a cunning ploy to enable the consumption of two gin and tonics before having to go through to eat. On arrival we were greeted by a ridiculously young and infectiously enthusiastic young man who was less matre de and more master of ceremonies.

Our first visit? How lovely, and were we celebrating any special occasion? Yes, we were celebrating my Mother’s birthday, one week ago today. Without a pause the young man stepped forward and gave my Mother an affectionate hug, wishing her happy birthday.

Frankly, it could have gone either way. My mother is a rather prim and mannered Scottish lady and, to be honest, demonstrative affection is not something that my family are into (at least not until recent years, when the younger members have married into families and made the discovery that hugging is something you can do without alerting the council authorities). Luckily the young man was genuine, and very good looking, and probably a bit surprised at my mother hugging back. I know I was. It’s not often you see your mother surprised and melting and back to normal inside of a space of a skipped heartbeat. Granite, see, the Scots.

I looked at the waitress, twenty, gorgeous, and wondered whether I’d get away with saying it was my birthday today. Sensing this my wife steered me safely to a chair and the welcome embrace of a G&T.

Frankly, the food had a tough act to follow. The service was divine, but the food was sublime. The stand out dish though, the one I keep thinking about, was the parsnip soup. Now, I make a good parsnip soup, taking parsnips that are shaped like the ‘after’ pictures of an STD lecture and some curry paste, I can make a soup that will be hot and fiery enough to restore vigour on the coldest winter day, and that’s just with external application to the chest and pulse points, if you actually eat the stuff you feel great right up until your next bowel movement. But this soup…

They must have harvested the parsnips with a silver sickle when the moon was waxing gibbous. Such flavour, such subtlety. Then at the bottom of the bowl there was apple puree! Christ alive, it’s bonus food!

Frankly, anything after that was going to be an anti climax, yet it was obvious that the chef, if not his crepe pan, was on fire that evening. He was young and hence had something to prove and energy to spend proving it. Then, after dinner had finished, he pulled it out of the bag.

After he had done the rounds, a shy guy propelled out of the kitchen by his staff eager to see him complimented (as he deserved), we sat down to coffee. I idly reached for a chocolate and popped in my mouth and, oh; my. Chocolate and chilli! You can stick crack up your arse (and maybe you do).