The lesson here is that once we are presented by the media as ‘as somewhere special’, then the guys that like to knock people down (usually after they have been built up) get stuck in.
This is the sad reality of celebrity – be that an individual or business.
This article is only one persons opinion and does not reflect the opinion of the Food Marketing Network, it’s here because there is a salutary lesson in this:
If you want to be ‘bigged up’ by the media, watch out for the knock down, whether it is reasonable or not, it will happen.
Ramsey’s Local Pub of the Year finalist:
The Pheasant, Keyston
A gastro-pub in Cambridgeshire is more turkey than Pheasant.
By Jasper Gerard in Cambridgeshire
The Pheasant made it to the final of The F Word. Perhaps if it was called the Plucking Pheasant, or something with a similar ring, Gordon Ramsay might have crowned it Britain’s best local restaurant. Instead Lasan, a modern Indian in Birmingham, won by the width of a poppadom. I reviewed Lasan before Ramsay sprinkled it with a light seasoning of televisual stardust and found it tasty but nothing to swear about. I was more intrigued by The Pheasant, a pub in the remote Cambridgeshire farming village of Keyston, which came across brilliantly.
Its chef, Jay Scrimshaw, was portrayed as an intense virtuoso, his nose to tail cooking transforming all those gristly bits with grisly names into challenging yet accomplished dishes. To reach the final he cooked at a Ramsay restaurant and as far as one could tell through a television screen, his creations were delicious.
And the more I drew The Pheasant into my sights, the more it appeared a model country gastro-boozer, a rural St John. Scrimshaw has laboured at Bibendum while wife Taffeta ran a branch of that bustling Japanese chain Itsu around an expensive South Kensington corner. They have taken their cosmopolitan expertise to the extremities of East Anglia, where they are certainly ticking the boxes, offering villagers cheaper drinks and catering for their dinner parties, while also trumpeting local suppliers.
They even plan a butchery service, only using meat from a 10-mile radius and “personally selecting” each lucky animal for slaughter. Oh, and they have a flair for PR, inviting patrons to park their planes in the next-door farm, leaving us mere motorists feeling decidedly no frills.
It looks like an inn to hang out in: low slung, thatched and displaying an ancient “Huntingdonshire” sign on whitewashed walls, a tribute to a lost county that is now a mere council district. But crossing the threshold I whisper to Diana: “Are you sure this is the right place?”
The decor could be described as “simple” or “rustic”. I’d go for “rubbish”: old red curtains and hunting print wallpaper with red and gold pub carpets that only lack Al Murray’s Pub Landlord spilling ale over it. There are three pubs in my parish, none of which could be called gastronomic destinations, but all feel more welcoming than this. The problem is The Pheasant feels unloved.
On television, judges were given the kind of greeting normally reserved for the Queen in one of the better behaved Caribbean islands, but us? Let’s just say I’ve been welcomed more warmly in Bulgaria. Taffeta darling, where are you? We are eventually shown to a table by a tight-bottomed waiter who is too grand to write down our order and announces he will send a waitress. Who admits she doesn’t know about the food.
At the bar, where we have been left loitering, a sign lists a vast array of meat cuts. So why are hardly any on the menu? There is fish from Scotland and Cornwall but not much local meat. Many dishes (such as fish and chips) could come under “pub grub”, if you scrubbed out the prices.
My game terrine is fine, with a hint of thyme and green peppercorns. It comes with remoulade made from carrot rather than celery, with mayo, herbs and capers, though the pleasing, punchy taste here is mustard. So top marks for the posh coleslaw, but what is this charcoaled ember? Oh, it’s meant to be toast. Baffling.
Diana’s warm salad of confit duck tastes like road-kill. But was there a mix up? Rather than duck did they serve the Dunlop that squashed it? I can’t remember duck this chewy, or dry. Only the fennel and orange with a poppy seed dressing save it from the doggy bag.
The châteaubriand is pretty decent; tender, though it could have been hung longer. And it’s hard to mess up steak. At £48 for a (large) shared helping, I expect more fireworks than this. It comes with chips – not chunky – salad and pedestrian béarnaise sauce.
We share apple and almond pudding with Chantilly cream, which is OK. Apple chunks, raisins and warm spices hide under an almond flour sponge, but the cream is rich and flavourless. Still, the place is busy: who needs quality when you have telly exposure?
Ramsay is a brilliant restaurateur who you’d imagine could tell his turkeys from his swans, so why The Pheasant? Chefs look down on critics because we can’t cook, but this experience confirms that chefs can’t critique. We critics have few talents but we can eat, taste and judge. Because we sample so many restaurants we know when they are good value for their type, genuinely original and better than regional rivals.
But then some folk eat out a lot and still get it wrong. A guidebook has just declared Mr Underhill’s in Ludlow the best restaurant in Britain. I won’t mention the guide’s name because a poor cove there gets terribly excitable whenever he sees his name in print. And we are grateful because his pronouncements often provide a good laugh at foodie gatherings. But now he has excelled himself. Mr Underhill’s is not the best restaurant in Britain; it’s not even the best restaurant in Ludlow (that is the fabulous La Bécasse).
Then again, I’m struggling to believe The Pheasant can be the best restaurant in Keyston.
The Pheasant, Keyston, Huntingdon, Cambs (01832 710241; www.thepheasant-keyston.co.uk) Lunch for two: £109.21 including service
T-rating: 4/10
