Lime Wood lives up to the Angela Hartnett promise

There’s much hand-wringing these days about the effects of positive screening on social media. Because we only share the best of our lives, the idea goes, people are lured into a damaging, un-achieveable and unending cycle of keeping up with the proverbial Joneses. The hand-wringers seem to discount the possibility of any common sense that reasons posts are probably the best minute of an otherwise tough day, or understand those glamorous holiday photos as a reward earned after a year of earnest toil. Evidently we need to show our work to get credit on this exam.

Last week, I could have shared my disgruntlement with two consecutive commutes getting caught in train delays through Waterloo after days coping with London’s sticky heat. (The climate may be changing, but England’s ability to deal with a heat wave remains abysmal.) On the second, thinking I was being clever by re-routing through Paddington, I arrived at Reading to find the last train to Basingstoke cancelled. I could have done much better things with the £45 taxi fare it required to get home. Then there was the excessive tooth pain I was trying to mask all week with unwise levels of ibuprofen. Turns out a hairline fracture my dentist has had her eye on for years may finally be giving way. I’m not sure which will be more painful, the root canal to come or the bill that will equal 20% of my first job’s annual salary. Meanwhile, at work, a legal department’s excessive (IMHO) interpretation of data protection legislation just added a Herculean task to a project I thought concluded.

There was, in short, not a great deal worth celebrating last week. I could have Instagrammed a photo of my molar, but … really? Nobody likes a moaner. I suffered in silence. Thus I felt I was getting a bit of karmic reward when I discovered that the restaurant some friends were treating us to on Friday night was the Lime Wood Hotel. (That was on my Instagram feed before starters hit the table.)

Lime Wood is a country house hotel and restaurant sitting in classic Georgian splendour on the Northern edge of Hampshire’s New Forest. The restaurant here was my culinary hero Angela Hartnett’s first foray outside of London, with business partner and fellow chef Luke Holder. It had been on our “must try” list since she started her association in 2014, but we'd never managed it. To get there by unplanned serendipity was a treat.

This is a very different proposition from either Hartnett’s flagship Murano or her Murano Cafes, but her signature touches are there: tiny, succulent arancini as pre-meal snacks; traditional Italian four-course organisation (anti pasti, pasta, mains and dessert); and an Italian-style focus on simple dishes done well. But the menu (top photo) and décor take their inspiration from the house. There's no doubt you're in England here, with formal gardens and classic perennial borders on view outside, cozy upholstery, classic prints and warm wood inside.  The menu celebrates local ingredients:  Wooley Park Farm guinea fowl, Glenarm estate beef, catch of the day from the nearby coast. Everything was presented in a style that, like the room, balanced elegance and informality.

I started with an exquisite little deep-fried artichoke (above) served on a foundation of partially sun-dried tomatoes; they'd been dried enough to intensify their flavour and get a bit chewy, but still qualified as fresh produce. My veal chop main was succulent, pink and substantively different from beef ... something that, sadly, doesn't happen enough in this country. Italian-influenced cuisine typically isn't known for its sauces, but they made both my dishes. There were raves around the table for other choices: a barely-solid burrata on slices of fruit, the day's fresh-caught red mullet, that guinea fowl. Generous portions ... including refills on bread and arancini before the main meal ... left us too stuffed for desert.

We adjourned instead to the courtyard around which the square house was built. No doubt a service yard in its original creation, it's now a chic yet country-casual cocktail lounge with a glass roof that slides open on glorious days. Coffee came with little bowls of new season cherries, another nod to Hartnett's constant message that the finest ingredients need little embellishment. 

I was particularly impressed by the local nature of the place. Yes, there were obviously exceptionally well-heeled visitors staying in the hotel rooms. But our friends weren't the only regulars recognised and warmly welcomed by the staff. At a table near us, two such locals had popped in for a drink and a quick snack in the courtyard before heading off somewhere else. It's basically the local pub every foodie dreams of: Michelin-quality food in a laid-back atmosphere with a staff that remembers you and treats you as a beloved guest. It's a shame ... though probably a blessing for our wallets ... that Lime Wood is an hour away from our house. 

I wonder if Angela and Luke could be enticed to acquire one of Sherfield-on-Loddon's charming but deeply average pubs? Perhaps the power of positive thinking can influence them. I'd better get Instagramming.

Aquavit delights in a week of disappointed expectations

It’s been one of those weeks in which reality has clashed regularly with expectations and, usually, come out the loser.

After investing a fortune in an upcoming trip to Japan, I’ve been forced to admit that it’s never going to deliver what I consider to be value for the money. Closer to home, a masterclass with a favourite Michelin-starred chef that I expected to be the highlight of my week was decidedly average. Most certainly not what I expected for its premium price tag. Happily, an impromptu meal at a restaurant that had received wary reviews delivered the best meal we’ve had thus far this year.

It all started with rugby. It’s been a year since we purchased our places with RFU Travel for this autumn’s World Cup in Japan. Excluding airfare, on a per-day basis, it’s the most expensive trip I’ve ever taken after our honeymoon and my 50th birthday extravaganza. So I had high expectations. In the long run-up to travel, I thought we’d be getting lots of informative communications and hints at the customisations that would make the trip special. Instead, the only communications we’d received were payment requests and a “save the date” for an event in early April that was never followed by an invitation. When a staffer told me we weren’t on the list because we’d never RSVPd, I decided to torment myself to see what their package would cost if I priced and bought it now, as an independent traveler. The results suggested a 130% markup, minus two rugby-themed events. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I defaulted to American bluntness in my communications with the RFU Travel staff.

Much to their credit, the marketing director of RFU Travel was on the phone to me within 24 hours. There had been problems on their side ... a stream of communications from them had gone missing ... but the biggest issue was that I was nowhere near target market for this trip and was unlikely to ever think their “added value” was worth the cash. RFU travellers were overwhelmingly male and not interested in anything but rugby. It was often groups of friends who just wanted to get away on a lads’ trip to watch sport and drink. They were paying a premium for the privilege of being part of the rugby fellowship, and going to a few events with access to rugby luminaries.

OK. I admit that after more than a decade in marketing for big corporations that sponsor rugby, I’m not typical on the luminaries front. I’ve been leadership coached by Sir Clive Woodward. Sean Fitzpatrick (above) taught me how to do the haka. And there’s one golden evening in Cannes, dining, drinking (a lot) and sharing stories of Italian food and Catholic school with Lawrence Dallaglio that’s probably the reason I became a rugby fan in the first place. Would I have paid a premium for these experiences? Probably. Would something similar be worth the 130%. For me, doubtful.

And then I started to think about the typical male executive I work with. The kind of busy, affluent fan who’s the traditional customer of RFU Travel. They may run multi-million pound organisations, but the majority are hopeless when it comes to the simple logistics of travel and social planning. If it’s a trip with the boys, they would be unwise to ask wives or employees (who usually bail them out on logistics) to support them. So they’re willing to pay a premium for basic arrangements that most women would never pay for. That’s my theory, anyway. I’ve scaled back my own expectations and am doing my best to forget about the price tag.

I was target market for the week’s culinary disappointment, which made it all the more galling.

My husband and I both admire Angela Hartnett enormously, have enjoyed glorious meals in her flagship Murano and, after a temporary disappointment at the soft launch of the Covent Garden Murano Cafe, have found it to be a dependable “go to” for a moderately priced meal in central London. (Think of it as the Italian cousin of Brasserie Blanc.) So when the mailing list of the former offered us a place at a pasta-making masterclass with Angela we jumped, despite the hefty £80 per person price tag.

The invitation implied an intimate evening in a quirky venue (the new SMEG flagship store on lower Regent Street) with enough tastes of food and drink to stand in for dinner. Reality was a bit more prosaic. There were about 100 guests, so it was very much watching Angela cook rather than interacting much; though the organisers were generous with fielding Q&A.

We started on the main shop floor with Prosecco and mushroom arancini. (Yes, husband. Point taken. Mine are too large.) Despite its horrible name, Smeg is from Italy’s culinary heartland of Emilia-Romagna and takes that heritage very seriously. They even have their own dairy herd at the headquarters and produce a premium Parmesan used only at their marketing events. Tasting it across three ages was a highlight, as was getting nose-to-nose with their Dolce & Gabbana-designed Sicilian appliances range. If I’d been in the mood to spend triple the price of a top quality appliance to get a unique look, I would have been going home with that toaster. (£500). But it’s the refrigerators that deserve your attention.

They’re only making 100 of them. Sourced from different artists under D&G’s overall design direction. Each different, but all vividly coloured and illustrated with scenes from Sicilian folk tradition. Price on application. You could probably buy a whole estate in the Sicilian village my grandfather came from for the price of that fridge. Still, if I ever win some silly-money lottery, it will look great in my Mediterranean-themed pool pavilion. Right next to the wood-fired pizza oven.

Smeg obviously kitted out the Regent Street store with marketing in mind, as the basement is an impressive show kitchen and theatre. It was here Angela held court, and I have no complaints with her presentation. Assisted by two senior chefs from her growing empire, she took us through pasta basics with useful tips and demonstrated step-by-step techniques for agnolotti, tortellini and farfalle. The first was the revelation of the night. Similar to ravioli but square, folded like an envelope and with room for far more stuffing, we were inspired to make our own (successfully) on Saturday and there’s an agnolotti press in the post from Amazon. I may never make ravioli again.

The presentation, sadly, sped by. We got to sample one tortellino each. (Another revelation here: I’m way too subtle with my sage.) We could have waited in a queue to have a photo snapped with Angela or bought one of her cookbooks and had her sign it, but the clock had just passed 8 and two glasses of Prosecco, two bite-sized arancini and one piece of filled pasta did not a dinner make. Hungry and feeling a bit hoodwinked that we’d spent the equivalent of a very nice dinner on an experience much the same as we’d had before at food and wine shows, we decided to head out for a proper meal.

I thought briefly of trying to cut our losses at the nearby 5 Guys Burgers, but Aquavit was literally next door.

We’ve been wanting to try this Scandinavian place since it opened last year. Though initial reviews were lukewarm, it’s earned a Michelin Star since opening and is one of the few restaurants in London where my husband can indulge in the food of his Danish childhood. This is Scandi by way of an original in New York, however, and the triple-height ceilings, cherry wood panelling, dynamic brass light fixtures and modern art say “Manhattan” more than “hygge”. And it’s hard to carry an ethnic theme in the global melting pot of London. Front of house was Afro-Caribbean, our waitress was Polish and our bartender Italian. Still, the expansive aquavit (spirit) menu was a hit with the man who has at least three varieties in the garage freezer at all times, and the range of Scandi classics on the menu warmed his heart. Even if, he shuddered, they were defaulting to Swedish names for things.

We kicked off with two exceptional starters paired with aquavit. (Not only culturally appropriate, but cheaper than wine.)

My husband's crab salad sat on a remarkable cake comprised of spiralised threads of potato fried to a solid but light mass. Growing up with mostly Italian influences, I've never seen the point of potatoes when pasta is available instead. Here, mere minutes after tasting a Michelin-starred chef's pasta, I experienced spuds that won that competition. Packed with intense potato flavour, sharp with crunch, comforting with just enough frying fat, it was remarkable on its own and a wonder with the generous pile of sauced crab above.

I went for smoked eel, in a delicate broth, with grilled baby gem lettuce spiked with tomatoes and lovage. Eel is rare these days outside of sushi bars, and this dish demonstrated what a shame that is. Firm but still delicate, pungent but not overwhelmed with smoke. The broth was all the flavours of the dish distilled to liquid; I would have picked up my bowl and drunk out of it had the waitress not offered a spoon. As with the crab, this could have been a memorable main. We moved on to a classic instead.

There are plenty of tempting offers on the menu, but we thought we'd test them on a Scandinavian comfort food classic. Meatballs. The relatively bargain price (£19) also helped assuage angst over the spiralling costs of the evening. I'm fairly sure that, like my family recipe, these are made from a mix of pork and veal, but I'm guessing they've been ground two or three times to create a consistency that's almost mousse-like. Texture comes from a light crisp of frying before they're slicked with an unctuous sauce. They sit on another testament to the potential of the potato: a silky, flavour-concentrated mash. This might all be too rich if it weren't balanced by the sweet and sharp pickles and the sweet and tart ligonberries. Aquavit, you've convinced me. Meatballs without tomato sauce aren't a compromise. They can be a triumph in their own right.

We were far too stuffed to contemplate pudding, even though there's an impressive menu here. It's a reason to come back. As is the range of open sandwiches. The place is screaming posh Sunday lunch.

So expectations by the end of the week suggest a return to Aquavit, and to Angela Hartnett restaurants. But not to pricey masterclasses. Watching Saturday Kitchen is free, and chef-studded food shows a bargain. As for rugby and Japan: my expectations have been managed downwards. I'll trust our investment to deliver rugby fellowship, and depend on my own travel planning skills to uncover exquisite opportunities in the Land of the Rising sun.

Utopian Franco-Italian fusion at Angela Hartnett's Murano

The computer that matched us said we were 98% compatible. As we mark five years of marriage, we acknowledge that it got us right on the headlines, but perhaps missed the fine points.

We both love opera, but he considers my Italians bombastic and trite, while I think his German needs editing and has difficulties making passion credible on stage. In the wine cellar, I find his beloved light French reds tart and forgettable, while he thinks my favoured merlot/cab sav blends are over-fruited thugs. We're both keen on history, but his obsession with battles and military hardware can try my patience, while he feels the same about my fascination with personalities, art and architecture. Both card-carrying "foodies", I'm sceptical about his classic French cuisine, which often over-complicates and has too many sauces and potatoes for my taste. He's unconvinced by the Italians.

Which is why Angela Hartnett's Murano is probably the best place we could possibly choose to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. (And my birthday.) Though Hartnett is best known as an Italian chef, the truth is that Murano's Michelin-starred menu brings us a culinary utopia where influences from Paris to Palermo come together to create the perfect fusion cuisine. Mr. Bencard feels French. The former Miss Ferrara feels Italian. Both are very happy.

Murano's pricing is elegantly simple: decide whether you're doing two, three, four or five courses, each with a set price, then pick your food. While options are laid out in what would be a traditional Italian order of dining, if you want to start with something from the third course, and follow up with two dishes from the first, they're happy to oblige. We went for four. Given the delicate serving sizes and the extras (amuse bouche, a bit of charcuterie, breads, pre-desert, petit four) this is the right level if you're hungry. Five would probably be excessive, and three would be more than sufficient ... but then you'd miss out on too much of the magic coming out of the kitchen.

I started with rabbit tortellini in one of those light but flavour-packed sauces that demands you use a bit of bread to mop up every bit. (One of the earliest life lessons taught to me by my revered Sicilian grandfather. No wonder I've always had a weight problem.) Piers admittedly won the contest on this course with a salmon tartare that was exceptionally balanced, with rich fish, creamy dressing, crunchy veg and citric fruit combining to deliver a sunny Mediterranean afternoon on a plate. I wouldn't have traded, however, as I would have missed out on the Valpolicella that proves you can have light red that's also mellow and fruity. (Made by Italians, naturally.)

On to artichoke heart served with a blue cheese croquette. This tiny plate exemplified how fine dining can actually be Weight Watchers-friendly. Just a quarter of the heart, with a croquette the size of the top half of your thumb, yet packed with enough flavour to power a dish four times its size. It was a course meant for cutting up into tiny slivers, savouring each one with a rather bizarre wine from Slovenia that was overly-minerally on its own but a perfect match for the notoriously hard-to-pair ingredients. Piers, meanwhile, was blissfully ensconced in a crab salad and a glass of Reisling.

We split the cote de boef for our main. (This has a supplemental charge.) A dish to make me weep for all the vegetarians in the world. Simple, perfectly cooked, carved off the bone at the table. Perfection.

Though Murano has a fascinating wine list, we let the sommelier put together a wine flight for us. This is a great option, as she pairs the right wine for each individual dish, and we found every choice to be flawless. Note, however, that the "about" £45 each is quite flexible, especially when you choose to have a second glass of the extraordinarily tasty St. Emillion she chose for the beef.

If there's one dish on the planet that best exemplifies Franco-Italian fusion, it has to be pistachio soufflé. The flavours of Italy packed into the most classical of French processes, Murano delivers the best I've ever had. This is what-I-want-for-my-last-meal-on-Earth stuff, with a towering rise, punchy flavours and a rich chocolate sauce to obliterate any health effects of the egg-white based soufflé. Aware that it was both my birthday and our anniversary, the kitchen piled on the sugar with an additional lemon tart and a triple chocolate delice with almond brittle and black currant sorbet, decorated with celebratory messages in chocolate sauce. I thought briefly of those profligate Romans with their vomitoriums off their banqueting halls, so they could pause and make room for more courses of culinary delight. Disgusting to modern sensibilities, but in this situation I could understand their strategy. I let modem sensibility prevail and sent 2/3rds of the bonus desserts back to the kitchen. But not before sampling enough to assure you, dear reader, that Murano is a haven for those with a sweet tooth.

As if to drive that point home, the petit four arrived. Squares of palate-cleansing quince jelly and cannoli the size of your pinkie. "Delicious," I said dubiously of the frothy citric concoction inside, " but not really cannoli cream."

"So much better than those heavy door stops you made me eat at Missouri baking," he insisted. "Light pastry, subtle filling ... they've made them French!"

I decided not to argue. In marriage as in restaurants, fusion and compromise bring out the best in us.