Oh right, the dirty-great letters on the front of the building. I see.
Finally having sat down we had the opportunity to get to grips with the menu. Seemingly recently shortened, there was no little variety. Mrs. Iconomist chose Omelette Arnold Bennett which was unctuous and creamy and only the sort of thing you'd eat when embarking on a proper dinner, not a twenty minute evening meal. My rillettes de canard was equally naughty. A beautiful layer of duck fat on the top was an extravagant and distinctly unprocessed butter substitute and the shredded bird moist and rich.
Now anyone can go and have dinner at The Yew Tree Inn but, as a lovely treat, Mrs. Iconomist booked us in for a night under Marco's roof, staying in one of the smart rooms they have there. On our late afternoon arrival our room wasn't ready which would have been more of an incovenience had they not have had the (fairly) newly installed bar at the back. The first thing that strikes you as you enter the "inn" is that it is far more restaurant than hostelry. Not a bad thing necessarily but there was a sense that it would feel uncomfortable settling in for a pint from the albeit well-stocked bar. No matter as, once we had passed the erroneous Quality Street-filled conch, settle in we did with a local scrumpy and an abundance of broadsheets. Even when he's not there, wherever you are in the building it feels like Marco is watching. Some of this can be attributed to the rather narcissistic collection of caricatures of the chef around the seating area in the bar, all beautifully executed in their own right but as a group slightly haunting.
On up to the rooms (£100 per night) where, after a minor debacle involving room allocation and dining times, we were met with more idiosyncratic décor, the caricatures changing tack, now depicting various politicians, actors, sports stars and socialites. Gazza grinned down from above and I wondered whether he was smiling at that moment. I doubted it. Ted Heath and Ricky Gervais at either end of the bed could have and probably should have given us greater cause for concern but we needed to get ready for dinner. The bathroom was a wetroom with an absolutely cracking shower but the sliding door had a wobbly handle. I could go on, but by golly talking about bathroom fittings is unspeakably dull.
As we descended, the muffled hum of diners' chatter rose up the stairwell which was a good sign. Nobody likes eating in an empty restaurant although with the patron's name literally attached to the place it was hardly likely to be deserted. We sat at the bar with a nice glass of Marlborough Sauvignon and contemplated the meal. Would it be hearty or fancy? Frilly or honest? We soon found out as we were led through to what can only be described as the interrogation table. We weren't quite sure what we had done wrong up to that point. We hadn't even stolen the toilettries in the bathroom. But the spotlight that shone so brightly on our table gave us the impression Marco himself was about to burst through the kitchen doors and question us about the Great Truffle Robbery. As all the other tables bathed in candlelight, we were getting sunburn. As it was a special ocassion we asked to move and, although the Maître D' seemed a little put out, our excellent waiter (hi Nigel!) seamlessly ushered us to probably the best table in the room. It's that one in the foreground. Very cosy.
Finally having sat down we had the opportunity to get to grips with the menu. Seemingly recently shortened, there was no little variety. Mrs. Iconomist chose Omelette Arnold Bennett which was unctuous and creamy and only the sort of thing you'd eat when embarking on a proper dinner, not a twenty minute evening meal. My rillettes de canard was equally naughty. A beautiful layer of duck fat on the top was an extravagant and distinctly unprocessed butter substitute and the shredded bird moist and rich.
The ribeye with snails and garlic butter was well executed, the molluscs melting away in the mouth. But the chips were just OK and not a patch on their triple-cooked third cousins twice removed served at what must be a direct competitior, Heston Blumenthal's Hinds Head. Mrs. Iconomist's Lancashire Hot Pot was good, with a deeply caramelised potato galette on top a stew that could have maybe done with a little more seasoning.
Not having a very sweet tooth I usually peer at the dessert section with more than a little suspicion. Where fruit are concerned I prefer tart to sweet (why put sugar on a strawberry for heaven's sake?) and chocolate leaves me cold. Mrs. Iconomist is exactly the opposite so it was heartening to find options to suit us both. Her Glace Amandine was super, studded as it was with nuggets of caramelly almonds. It was so good it didn't need the hot chocolate sauce that accompanied it and this coming from a chocoholic. The rice pudding with a red fruit compote that was satisfyingly sharp was a smooth amalgam of the creamy and the poignant.
With coffee came gateaux conversation, a frangipane/ puff pastry marriage, or should that be filthy affair? Even after such a satiating meal there was little time for conversation as the sugary puffs were devoured with gusto. With the meal put on the tab, off we waddled upstairs to sleep on our backs. Gervais looked at our stomachs with pity.
Breakfasts associated with a night's stay are invariably underwhelming and, save the decent black pudding and an OK sausage, Marco's was no different. Respectable coffee and a bit of a read of the Sunday papers and we set off for the, unbeknownst to us closed, Highclere Castle. They're a trusting lot at the Yew Tree. As we pulled away it dawned on us that, as we had told the staff we were booked in for lunch and would settle up later, they had no more than a mobile number so it was quite possible we could have driven off home without paying for anything. Fairly nearby Hungerford was entertaining and a suitably named town in which to rediscover much needed appetite.Another pint of scrumpy and a sit down was in order on our return, the staff visibly relieved we hadn't made a run for it. Then back through to the restaurant where, although we entertained the customary menu perusal, there was really only one dish that was going to hit the mark. And this is really where an establishment such as this stands out from your average spit and sawdust, swirly carpet pub. The roast beef was, get this, pink. The Yorkshire pudding was big and puffy and the gravy was a simple case of the rich meat juices. The roast potatoes were good but not transcendent as some can be and the perefectly drinkable house, whisper it, Merlot was a suitable foil for the whole lot.
Our usual adventurous natures deserted us for dessert as we played it safe and had the same as the previous night. Rice pudding still creamy, the ice-cream still not needing the chocolate sauce. Another couple of conversation cakes (well, one liberated for later) and we started picking our way through the bill for three meals and a room with only a minor, innocent miscalculation. As we bade farewell I still couldn't fathom how the conch filled with Quality Streets fitted with the image but considering Marco's unpredictability, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised.
Marco Pierre White's Yew Tree Inn
Hollington Cross
Andover Road
Highclere
Berkshire
RG20 9SE
T: 01635 253360
E: info@theyewtree.net Read More...
