Eyas at The Falcon shows fine dining flare in the Northamptonshire countryside

Season Three of The Bear has been a bitter disappointment. A show that once had a magical balance of comedy, drama, characterisation and plot now seems to be meandering in the artsy foothills of award pursuit, with critical acclaim now considered more important than entertaining an audience. I stuck with it because I was invested in the characters from previous seasons, and I want to see how their arcs come to an end. But it was hard work.

There remain moments of brilliance, however, and more fascinating insight into the immense pressures and obsession for detail that goes into fine dining. That thought pushed its way into my head last night as a spoon too heavy for the delicate bowl in which it had been thrust flipped out, flinging some particularly tasty potatoes across the front of my dress with the action and force of a Medieval trebuchet. Carmy, The Bear’s moody proprietor, may be insufferable this season, but he wouldn’t have paired that dish and utensil. There are a million little stresses in the pursuit of culinary perfection.

Fortunately, the weaponised spoon was the only discordant note in a delightful dinner deep in the Northamptonshire countryside to celebrate my husband’s birthday. 

Eyas is one of a handful of restaurants within driving distance of Milton Keynes that appear in the Michelin Guide. None have stars, but rather bear “plate” status … promising fine dining establishments the Guide has its eye on. This one sits in the picture-postcard village of the Castle Ashby estate, attached to a traditional inn called The Falcon that Lord and Lady Northampton have turned into an upscale spot for a retreat or a special event. Though only half an hour from the hotel that Team Bencard calls its second home Monday through Friday, Eyas and its surrounding village feel a world away in both distance and time. Film makers wouldn’t have to do much to set an 18th century drama here.

Outside, that is. Eyas’ interiors are sophisticated enough to be in the heart of London, with creatively contrasting fabrics, elegant pottery and innovative architectural features. (I loved the ceiling panels punctured with holes of different sizes; an abstract version of a night sky.) Our table looked out over the hotel gardens, enlivened that night by a local wedding reception. Seasonal floral arrangements and an enormous wreath of dried flowers hanging like a chandelier above the room bring the outside in.

Logically for a place operating out of a historic agricultural estate, Eyas’ Head Chef Russell Bateman and team source ingredients from farmers, gamekeepers and nurseries within and around the 10,500 acres that comprise Castle Ashby. Obviously that doesn’t work for seafood or wine, though the latter challenge is partially solved by sourcing some bottles from a relative’s estate in Sussex.

Piers won the starters competition, as a birthday boy should, with a gorgeous plaice dish that balanced soft and crunchy, salty and sweet, and paired sea and land with fresh-cut herbs. 

My gnocchi was a very close runner-up. I appreciated the creativity of bacon lardons and apricots in the cheese sauce, but my final verdict on the fruit was “interesting experiment” rather than something I’ll rush to try again. The base cheese sauce, however, would do any Italian trattoria proud, and mopping the remains up with a slice of sourdough was just as good as the original dish.

As the designated driver, I started with a glass of the Wild Idol sparkling rose, by far the best non-alcoholic wine I’ve ever tried. I immediately looked it up online and it’s available direct from the maker for £24 a bottle. The company is obsessed with the environment and its green credentials, which fits well with the restaurant.

We both opted for the pork belly as a main and were split on our opinion. The birthday boy thought it was good but that the fat could have been rendered more; I was rolling my eyes in porcine pleasure. This may be because under normal Weight Watchers adhering circumstances, the saturated fats in pork belly make it the most sinful of indulgences … so I was just revelling in the transgression. We were both impressed with the perfectly balanced sauce which, it transpired, owed its interesting zing to miso and fish sauce. That we will be trying at home.

The most memorable thing on the plate, however, was the veg. A quarter hispi cabbage, grilled, became the base of an exquisite pile of peas, pea shoots, nuts, another green (possibly courgette or cooked cucumber) and just enough feta-like cheese to give it a bit of bite. If you’d been served two of these as a vegetarian main, you wouldn’t have missed the meat. 

The dish of the night, however, was desert. A scoop of chocolate ganache, on a bed of passion fruit sauce, covered with sweet, crunch bits, topped with a quenelle of ice cream (or maybe frozen yogurt) with a tartness to contrast the rich chocolate, topped with more passion fruit. In appearance, it was so simple as to almost be disappointing. It certainly didn’t set up the expectations that come with complex pastry work. But one bite reminded you that whether you’re at your local pub or a fancy restaurant, ultimately taste is all that matters. And this was an explosion of delight in the mouth.

It was also so rich that we had no chance of tucking in to the praline and chocolate disc that came after with birthday greetings, or the beautiful after dinner chocolates. We took them home with us to have for dessert the next night, as we returned to our standard fare Chez Novotel. 

Eyas is yet another point in the much-maligned midlands’ favour. Honestly, there’s nothing like this within half an hour of our home in North Hampshire, despite our proximity to London and all of our pockets of affluent London commuters. We do have a one Michelin star local option at L’Ortolan, but they’ve just announced they’re closing, and the best gastro-pub in the area, the Purefoy … thought to be on track for a Michelin mention … closed in January. Margins are tiny in fine dining and the market is tough. 

So I’ll excuse Eyas’ ill judged cutlery, and ignore the rather weird amuse bouche of an avocado sabayon that tasted great, but lost its body so quickly it failed completely as a dip for the veg it came with. (Served in a shot glass with some veg spears on the side, it would have been perfect.) Such are the vagaries of experimentation. I’m so glad that, like the fictional “Bear”, people are out there pushing the envelope to serve up memorable meals in the English countryside. 

Living the good life, with full stomachs, at Vall de Cavall

Brands like Ralph Lauren and Carolina Herrera have long embraced the equestrian scene to sell luxury products. Beautiful people, wearing beautiful clothes, gambolling around beautiful landscapes on beautiful beasts screams aspirational lifestyle. If you want to live it for real, if only for a brief time, head to Vall de Cavall restaurant nestled in the deep countryside of the Marina Alta south of Dénia.

It’s the kind of place you’re unlikely to stumble upon as an outsider. It’s tough to find even if you know where you’re going; most drivers on the road winding though this mountainous region would be concentrating too much on the twists and turns to notice the small sign on a one-track lane that leads across the valley. Follow it, however, and you’ll come to a traditional Spanish ranch house clothed in bougainvillea and surrounded by stables, paddocks and horses. The surrounding peaks make the rest of the world feel very, very far away.

Like most of our experience along the coast in this region, the mood and the clientele are pan-European. So is the management: owned by a Belgian-born professional equestrian and his Spanish wife, the kitchen run by a Moroccan head chef. Yet this felt a good deal more Spanish than anything along the coast, and even though the menu is best considered “international fine dining” the amount of pork, saffron, Spanish wines and regional Spanish dishes sinks the kitchen’s roots deep into its valley.

I started with grilled octopus with creamy potatoes and crispy ham. It was a beautiful dish and the tricky cephalopod was perfectly cooked. The ham was a great match (everything’s better with pork…) but I could have done without the potatoes which made the dish overly rich and fought with the octopus to be the star of the show. It couldn’t come close to the African interpretation I wrote about last month. 

The real headliner of the first course came on the side; delicate filo pastry wrapped around what tasted like the inside of a chicken pastilla, shaped and presented like branches of an exotic tree.

I went for a Spanish classic next and opted for the suckling pig. Beautifully presented and as succulent as you’d expect…

but the winner of this round was clearly our friend who went with oxtail in Pedro Ximenez sauce. This was comfort food of the highest level; the kind of thing that makes you roll your eyes in ecstasy the moment it hits your tastebuds. The sweet sherry provided a balance to the fatty meat while keeping everything lusciously moist. (The pig, on the other hand, could have used more sauce.) 

I’m tempted to try both at home, given that I saw someone picking up a suckling pig at our local farm shop last time I was in, but I suspect the oxtail is less tricky to get right.

Vall de Cavall presents a challenge for the dessert lover. The portions are so enormous, and much of the food so rich, that it is almost impossible to contemplate a third course. We paused for a while, letting glasses of Crianza aid our digestion while we appreciated the interiors. Spanish hacienda style with cosy furniture, enormous fireplaces, terra-cotta floors and an art collection featuring horses from a range of artistic traditions, ancient Chinese to near-abstract modern. We moved outside … probably waddling rather than walking … for coffee on the patio. Because it was my birthday and our wedding anniversary, a chocolate cake glistening with mirror glaze beneath a miniature Roman candle spouting sparkles arrived at the table as the waiting staff surrounded us to sing. Despite the stuffed stomachs, we managed to clear the plate. It would have been rude not to.

To accompany the chocolate, we drank in the ambiance. Umbrellas filter the Mediterranean sun. A swimming pool offers the glitter of water. Mountains loom. Bright flowers scramble over stone walls flecked with the same rusts and greys of the mountains. You could sit happily for a very long time. Horsey people, no doubt, were gambolling about in a paddock nearby. I, simply borrowing the lifestyle for an afternoon, soaked it all in and gave thanks to our friends who inducted us into this local secret of the good life. 

Series of stumbles suggests L'Ortolan is losing its touch

L'Ortolan is one of the grand old dames of British fine dining. It first gained a Michelin star in 1982, when there were just 17 in the country. In the late '80s, it briefly held two. Six notable head chefs have led the kitchen, while time there turns up on the CV of many a culinary star. It's also the only fine dining restaurant in an area where the next best dining options are chains or serviceable gastropubs.

Thus the restaurant, tucked away in the former vicarage of a pretty rural village on the southern outskirts of Reading, has become the "go to" destination for generations of locals marking special occasions. That's certainly the case for us. I've been to L'Ortolan more than any other Michelin-starred establishment, and my evening at its extraordinary Chef's Table makes it on the list of the Top 5 dining experiences of my life.

But nothing lasts forever. I saw several signs last night, as we celebrated the double delights of my birthday and our wedding anniversary, that the venerable spot might be going through a rough patch.

The first warnings had nothing to do with the food. As we sat in the bar with our pre-dinner drinks,
we noticed a gash in one of the leather sofas, frothed with its escaping upholstery stuffing. At the table, the beautiful hand-turned wooden bowl holding our bread was obviously broken, with four inches of one edge snapped off. These may seem like little things, but at a place that stakes its reputation on perfection, they shouted. Though one of the private rooms was buzzing with a party, there were empty tables in the main room on a Friday night, while nobody occupied the esteemed chef's table. These early indications hinted that L'Ortolan was no longer at the top of its game.

We opted for the chef's menu and the matching wine flight. As expected: elegant presentation, classic French tastes, interesting matches with insightful commentary from the sommelier. The standards remain exceptionally high. Mackerel with beetroot, raspberries and a sliver of meringue was a beautiful balance of strong and soft, sweet and savoury. Who can argue with duck liver parfait, or a main of perfectly cooked duck with sides of succulent "bon bon" made of confit leg meat? That classic main got a modern boost from pineapple chutney and bok choy with a soy glaze. Chocolate tart with goat's cheese ice cream is an inspired combo of rich, sweet and tart flavours. I've had many of these elements in different combinations here over the years; the duck bon bons have earned praise on this blog before.

But all was not perfect on the plates, either. The fish course stumbled: stone bass with sea veg and caviar needed more texture, particularly as the skin was soft and flabby rather than crispy; the date puree that accompanied it was too sweet to integrate smoothly with the rest of the dish; leaving the tempura soft shell crab, meant to be a slight garnish, as the standout element on the plate. The balance seemed off on the duck liver, as well, where we had too much liver with not enough secondary elements to temper the iron-rich punch. The walls of ginger tuile were exquisite, but needed to be thicker to impart an essential sweet crunch to the dish. Mackerel, beetroot and fruit is a classic combo, but were the slices of raspberry meant to be still frozen? I suppose this could have been for texture, but something frozen that solid is both a jarring shock to the mouth, and relatively tasteless.

Repeated ingredients across courses also diminished my enjoyment. Of five courses and two amuse bouche, mackerel appeared in two and duck in two. The mackerel as a snack of crispy skin with dots of flavoured mayonnaise and that first course with beetroot. In between was a rather insipid little bowl of savoury custard topped with haddock foam. Heaven help anyone not fond of fish if presented with this opening triple salvo. The two duck courses were separated by the stone bass. Unlike mackerel I can happily enjoy much repetition of this lovely bird, but it does seem a shame to repeat when there are so many other options to explore. I found myself fondly recalling an otherwise unimpressive dinner at the French Laundry, where they bend over backwards to never repeat an ingredient from one course to another. Call me a cynic, but I had to wonder if L'Ortolan is doing a bit of cost cutting.

It could be that I was just in an exceptionally picky mood. With our magnificent meal at Denmark's Restaurant Domestic still fresh in my mind, my expectations had been ratcheted up and L'Ortolan fared badly. Within its specific context, however ... as the only top quality restaurant in its area and a place that delivers London-quality food at somewhat smaller prices ... L'Ortolan delivers. I'm not ready to abandon it yet. But I'm also in no hurry to rush back, and whenever that next special occasion calls for local fine dining, I'll be watching carefully to see if our latest experience was a quirky one-off, or sign of an ongoing decline.

Aarhus' exceptional Restaurant Domestic dishes up one of my top five dining experiences ever

There are few restaurants so spectacular I'd recommend scheduling a trip just to eat at them. Domestic in Aarhus is one of them. This Michelin-starred gem tucked away in an old industrial building in Denmark's second city immediately vaulted into the top five restaurant experiences of my life. It's extraordinary on every front. If you want a magnificent, off-the-beaten-track culinary weekend, get Domestic on your list.

Why?

The food, as you'd expect from that Michelin star, is exceptional. Embracing all those elements of Scandinavian cuisine that have taken the world by storm, but without fuss, molecular gastronomy or the "pushing people out of their comfort zone" that's always put us off seeking a reservation at Copenhagen's famous Noma. Just great food. Exquisitely combined, prepared and presented. The atmosphere is fantastic: casual yet elegant, modern yet refined, with plenty of room between tables to give a sense of intimacy despite the big industrial space. And what a staff! We had our main server, Morten, and five others presenting our dishes, several of the secondary team coming straight from the kitchen to bring us what they'd just prepared. Every dish and each accompanying wine came with a story, and the whole team was happy to chat. I felt more like the visiting auntie of gang of 20-something foodie hipsters keen to entertain me rather than a paying guest at a restaurant. On every count, Domestic was magnificent.

You can choose from a four- or eight-course set menu, with matching wine or juice flights. We, of course, did eight and eight. Plus the eight snacks that serve as amuse bouche and a glass of bubbly to go with those. All of which sounds like an obscene quantity that should have seen us bursting, Mr. Creosote-like, before the first desert. But so well-judged and delicate are the portions that we emerged feeling full, brimming with comfort and satisfaction, but not stuffed. As to the effects of nine glasses of wine, some with top ups? In our defence, the experience did stretch over more than three hours...

Those "snacks" are masterful, tiny demonstrations of culinary excellence. They fire a warning shot across the bows of your expectations: we are wildly creative artists, obsessed with what's in season,  with a great sense of fun. A single potato chip "dressed" with garlic mayonnaise and grated veal heart. A finger-sized buckwheat taco filled with smoked mackerel. Tiny rolls of beef tartare in a celeriac wrapper. A skewered cube of smoky pork belly on a bed of freshly-cut, warmed juniper branches sending out an extraordinary scent. These delights went with a remarkable discovery: sparkling apple wine.

Andersen Winery is a local operation dedicated to using Champagne's methode traditionelle with Denmark's best fruits and berries to create something completely new. Their Sigrid 2015 Brut was mind blowing: the toasty, small-bubbled elegance of the best champagne with the apples sliding the flavour profile someplace new. It's so subtle you might not be able to pick up the apple in a blind taste test, but magnificent. If this was available on the open market I might never go back to bubbly grape juice. Sadly for all of us, their production is almost exclusively purchased by top restaurants in Denmark, so you'll have to go there to partake of this delight.

An hour in to this extravaganza, it was time for the main show. Kicked off with "ravioli" the size of a two-pound coin, made from an outer shell of celariac, filled with soft cheese and floating on an intense, green herbal sauce. A flavour explosion. On to the seemingly bizarre mix of pickled green strawberries, lobster and samphire. The strawberries dominated the lobster a bit, but the combo was fantastic. Next a little piece of cod on a foamy mussel sauce. I hate mussels. It didn't matter. Here, they'd been reduced to an umami essence; a complementary backnote rather than an independent element. Next up: potatoes. Small pieces had been de-hydrated, re-hydrated and cooked, served with slivers of white asparagus, fresh lovage and a grate of parmesan. The interesting preparation had completely transformed the vegetable into something new, with a different bite and texture than any other potato preparation I've had.

The two main meat courses were simple and perfectly balanced. A slice of succulent pork, tender and still pink as you can do with confidence with top quality meat, in a herby black garlic sauce with three elegant cups of onion. Next a slice of beef. Caramelised bark on the outside, mouth-meltingly rare inside, with a blackcurrant sauce and a parsley-studded salad. Yet another example of how the Danes use fruit in unexpected ways in savoury dishes. This may be the No. 1 thing I bring back to my own kitchen.

The two puddings show the Danes' delicate touch with desserts. Strange, perhaps, for a country known for its pastries, but the meal-ending sweets here tend to be much lighter and fresh-fruit based ... shown off at the most sophisticated level at Domestic. We started with a dollop of thick buttermilk that was almost like yogurt, dressed with herbs and honey. Yes, herbs. I've never had a pudding that was so strongly vegetal. And delicious. More herbs in the second desert, as sugared granules of tarragon and wildflowers elevated a circle of plump blueberries. We could have opted for an additional sweets course that might have brought more sinful pleasures, but that was an excess too far.

Instead, we retired to a cozy wine cellar over coffee. At least ... my husband had coffee. Here's your biggest clue that they don't see many Americans in Aarhus. No decaff options at all. The coffee smelled exquisite. But even a perfect meal is not worth the sleepless night that caffeine at 11:30pm would have given me.

We floated back to the Ritz Hotel through Aarhus' broad, elegant streets. By that point they were throbbing with young people out for a good time. This is, after all, home to the largest university in Scandinavia. Much to our surprise, two lads called out to us, offering to sell some cocaine. I had a good laugh. I'd already had my high for the evening; no drug could beat the art and tastes of Domestic.

Chiltern Firehouse deserves its fame. But check your credit limits before you go.

Google "Chiltern Firehouse", and you're likely to find as much about it being an "in" spot for the celebrity set as you are to see people talking about its food. Since it opened in 2014, this remodelled Victorian Firehouse in Marylebone has been the spot to see and be seen. Tables have been rarer than foie gras in California ... so I was delighted when a friend pulled in a favour to grab us one last week.

I was looking forward to the experience, but wasn't expecting that much from the food. Wafer-thin actresses whose idea of dinner is a small plate of greens are hardly my go-to arbiters of fine dining. I'm delighted to say: how wrong I was!

The Chiltern Firehouse delivered an extraordinary meal, notable for its confident and creative balance of textures. There were beautifully complementary wines, genial service and a buzzy atmosphere. The drawback? It's priced for those celebrity diners. Even for those accustomed to London fine dining prices, this is a save-up-for-a-special-occasion restaurant. I have done the chef's menu, with wine flight, at several Michelin star places for the same amount I spent on three a la carte courses, my share of two bottles of wine (between four) and coffee here.

My starter of roast garlic custard with peas, broad beans and bacon crumb gave me my first insight into the textural experience that was to define the evening for me. Custard unctuously smooth and comforting, balanced by the bite of fresh garden peas lightly cooked to a sweet al dente, kicked into the taste stratosphere by crunchy, salty, umami bacon crumbs. One of the most memorable starters I've had in ages.

The whole table wanted the day's special sea bass. We'd ordered, and chosen and started on the wine (a Gavi, at £37 one of the cheaper wines on the list) when the waiter came back with apologies that they were all out. Given that we sat down at the unusually early time of 6:30, that's a black mark against their kitchen management. The advantage, however, was that it pushed two of us into ordering the pork, and the other two into a shared, roasted lamb served Middle-Eastern style with flatbread and an array of tiny sides.

I sampled the latter. Even though lamb is my least-favourite meat, I would have happily tucked in with gusto. But my choice was far better. Iberico pork, perfectly pink and beautifully seasoned, with cuttlefish, served with a wild garlic puree topped with broad beans and broken rice porridge. The last bit brought in that crunch again. As did toasted spices strewn atop the exquisite truffled buckwheat polenta I had on the side. This is a serious candidate for a last-meal-on-Earth discussion.

And the food was made even better by the appearance of schioppetino on the menu. Not only did its light, yet fruit-rich and peppery profile go well with both meat choices ... it worked its usual treat of shortcutting to a great relationship with the sommelier. (For another story of how that happened, read this.) When I shared my delight about the appearance of this unusual variety on their list, he immediately grew enthusiastic and we swapped stories about our schioppetino experiences. Ten minutes later, he quietly appeared at my elbow and slipped me a glass of something, on the house, he thought I might appreciate trying. An impressive '92 Saint-Julien Bordeaux. Which, at least in part, eased the pain over moving up to a much more expensive wine to match our alternative main courses.

Dessert presented a challenge. Key lime pie? As every Floridian knows (and, having spent all my formative holidays there, I claim honorary affiliation), a key lime is a specific variety that only comes from the Florida Keys. They're smaller and have a thinner skin than other limes, and are known for their distinct sweet and bitter balance. Where, I wanted to know, did they source their limes from? Because I didn't want an imposter. This threw the waiters into a bit of confusion, but I finally got my answer from the kitchen. Not Floridian, but a Brazilian variety they thought was close. They promised they did something very unique with their recipe. Two Floridians had tried it thus far: one loved it, one wasn't impressed. They'd like my opinion. (Although not enough to comp me the course!)

So I gave it a go. Stunning appearance, the right flavour profile on the lime ... though calling it key lime pie was quite a stretch. It was more like a lime fondant, with a baked outer layer collapsing to reveal a gooey citrus cream when punctured. The real star of the dish, however, was the topping. Sails of meringue wafer (crunch, again) studded with lime zest formed a roof over a quenelle of mascarpone. Eaten together, you'd swear the chef had subtly integrated white chocolate ... a classic friend of key lime ... but it was only an illusion. In the overall taste stakes, I would have been just as happy with a slice of the classic served up at Lauderdale-by-the-Sea's Aruba Beach Cafe. But as a fine-dining level dessert, it was memorable and delicious.

We didn't see anyone famous that night and, frankly, we didn't need to. The stars were on our plates, and in our glasses. And that was good enough for us.

Gauthier, Ham Yard are hidden gems in Soho's noisy tapestry

London's Soho has gentrified almost beyond recognition from the edgy home of the sex trade and alternative music I first gawped at as a teen-aged tourist. Despite new tenants and rocketing rents, there's still a whiff of seediness about the area. Maybe it's the remaining pornography vendors cheek-by-jowl with a higher-than-average homeless population. Perhaps it's the much-in-need-of-refurbishment interiors of many of its established venues. Certainly Saturday nights here do nothing to add to the allure ... at least for me ... with packs of drunken 20-somethings in from the home counties, boys braying and girls sashaying down the streets showing off their stiletto heels and spraypaint-tight dresses.

I can, however, tip you off to two places in Soho that leave the tawdry masses behind. Both have the feel of a private club: one for the refined grownups, one for the younger crowd out for a more boisterous time. Both, of course, will set you back a few pounds. Whatever the opposite of "seedy" is, it is most certainly not cheap.

We start at Gauthier Soho, a restaurant that occupies the entirety of one of the early Georgian townhouses that form the architectural backbone of the area. It still feels more house than restaurant, with an unchanged facade and subtle signage. You have to ring the bell for entry. Once inside ... where, of course, you are expected, because nobody turns up unannounced at this sort of place ... you're swept into the comforting care of an efficient staff. Most, like the cuisine, are French. And should you be unaware of the gastronomic influences coming your way, the bust of Napoleon topping the newel post of the main stairway (picture above) will remind you.

Gauthier no longer holds the Michelin star it won in 2011, but its food is exactly the kind of beautifully presented, subtly flavoured delicacy you expect at that level of fine dining. It is, admittedly, like many French restaurants of this calibre. Its differentiation comes from its private rooms. There are five here, taking up more of the overall house than the official restaurant rooms. Our hosts for the evening had carefully researched where they might combine fine dining with 20 people, and thought Gauthier had the most interesting menu choices. We selected from a short list in advance, off a menu where everything was tempting. They effortlessly matched diners to their pre-selections, and managed to serve everyone at once, with no compromise in taste, temperature or presentation.


We mingled briefly over champagne and an array of tasty little canapés; most memorable being a bit of seafood presented in a tiny, crispy basket shaped like a clam shell, but totally edible.  I missed the point of roasted carrots for an amuse bouche (too much like Weight Watchers), but the chef was back on stride with an excellent rabbit roulade with black olive crostini and winter leaves. Next a ginger and beetroot risotto, leading in to wild sea bass. All finished with a classic dark chocolate tart before the petit fours. The sommelier managed the tough task of matching wine across a variety of choices; the light red with the main course worked as well with my fish as with my husband's lamb. It's a rare thing when, having tasted their 'banquet food", you're tempted to return to the restaurant proper. But that's the case with Gauthier Soho.

My experience at the Ham Yard Hotel also went down the "banquet" route, but on a dramatically different scale. I'd guess there we were close to 200 at this annual work celebration, and the combination of location, food, drink and service made it one of the best corporate events I've been to in years.

The hotel is tucked away in a courtyard a stone's throw from Piccadilly Circus. You could walk by the entries from the main streets by a hundred times without ever knowing it's there; which is precisely the reason it has such an exclusive feel. It's quiet and elegant, yet also quirky and modern ... a quintessential boutique hotel ... and once settled for a coffee in its ground floor lounge areas you'd never believe you were so close to the neon-drenched, throbbing heart of London.  The central-yet-hidden cachet is, in fact, the reason I already knew about the place. It's a favourite spot for headhunters' meetings.

Just as I had a thrill of discovery the first time I wandered into the yard, last night I reeled in delightful shock at how much is under the hotel. There's a warren of impressive, double-height party rooms, a 200-seat theatre, several bars and a high tech karaoke studio that can also handle a live band.  It's all decorated in founder and designer Kit Kemp's trademark style: bright colours, bold statements, quirky juxtapositions. There's a 15-foot spiral track of oranges feeding the juicers in one of the bars. Giant film posters from the early days of cinema dominate walls. Life-sized crocodiles sculpted from driftwood crawl across wallpaper pulsing with oversized, three-dimensional butterflies. Enter the bowling alley, imported from somewhere in Texas, past a wall of vivdi bowling shoes arranged as an art installation.

As you'd expect, a place that makes this much effort on how things look doesn't settle for average food and drink. Entry beverages weren't just the usual champagne, but mohitos. Properly made, with plenty of crushed fresh mint. Fresh, sweet-and-salty popcorn awaited us in the theatre when we went in for the evening's speaker and corporate award ceremony. Dinner was a buffet of finger food, which can often be a disaster. Here, the choice included mini bagels with smoked salmon, mini burgers, rare roast beef on parmesan crisps and ... for those carb loading for a night of heavy drinking ... bowls of mac'n'cheese. Made with artisan cheese, of course. There were even a couple of salads for the health conscious, and these were interesting combinations of things like green beans, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese. The kinds of salads that stand as meals on their own, rather than a bowl of lettuce as an afterthought.

Just like Gauthier Soho, my group dining experience left me happy to come back and explore what's on offer on my own time and money. I'll certainly keep using Ham Yard as a central but secret meeting place. And if I ever want a private screening of my favourite film for 200 of my besties, now I know where to do it.

In the land of sausage and dumplings, a German-Japanese chef puts Munich on a different culinary map

The words "German cuisine" and "gourmet" are not a natural fit.  Plenty of people head to Bavaria for the beer, but they rarely rave about the food.  Every beer garden and traditional tourist restaurant serves the same hearty fare, building from the twin pillars of carbohydrates and pork products.  A bowl of kaesespaetzle (the Alpine version of mac n' cheese) is as comforting as your mother's warm hug as she tucks you under a fluffy duvet, but it's hardly elegant.

But, as a Munchener friend pointed out to me, that's not the way the natives eat.  Like the famous British fry-up ... which foreign visitors assume the locals eat every morning because that's what they get in every B&B, but the natives may do at home once a month ... traditional German specialities are  just one slice of the food scene here.

Like Copenhagen before it, young chefs in Munich are mixing tradition up with innovative ideas and unexpected fusions.  Based on our experience in the talented hands of chef Tohru Nakamura, I wouldn't be surprised if Munich starts trending as the Danish capital did a few years ago, and his Michelin-starred Geisels Werneckhof starts getting mentioned regularly alongside Noma and the Fat Duck.  At each place, chefs have turned traditional cuisine on its head to give the world something completely new.  In Nakamura's case, it's the improbable-sounding Japanese-German fusion.

This was the best meal we've had all year.  It was the one activity that appeared on both of our lists of favourites from across the whole holiday.  We have nothing in London like it.  Quite simply:  If you're serious about your food, it is worth planning a weekend getaway in Munich just to eat here.  It's that good.

I've encountered a few places claiming Japanese fusion, but they've been car crash hybrids offering oddities like wagyu beef tartare or chicken cordon bleu sushi.  This is far more subtle.  In fact, if you sat down to eat without context, you'd only see high-end European food.  You'd know that something was different, but not be able to put your finger on it.  A lightness of touch, a clarity to the sauces, the crunch of vegetables and the hint of flavours you can't identify.  But you won't be flying blind, because Nakamura takes the time to visit each table at the start of your meal, explaining his concept and why things will taste a little different.  How, for example, he uses Japanese "dashi" for the base of his sauces, which tends to make things lighter, brighter and a bit sharper.  (And you don't even need to speak German or Japanese; he rolled out perfect English for us.)

We went for the chef's menu, which you can select in a nine, seven or five course version.  We chose the middle path, though the profusion of little extras amounted to three or four additional courses on their own.  Starting with five would more than suffice on a second visit, but I'm glad we opted for more to experience the range of Nakamura's innovation.  We also went for the matching flight of drinks, selected in the same spirit of innovative fusion by Gascon-born sommelier Gerard Desmousseaux.  After checking our tolerance for experimentation, he delivered a menu of seven beautiful glasses ... each with interesting commentary ... that used wine, sake and beer to reach that perfect match to the food.

After a spread of delicate, unusual and gorgeously presented amuse bouche (top photo), our first course delivered the combination of taste, surprise and presentation that would characterise the rest of the meal.  Locally sourced char had been mildly smoked in juniper branches, then combined with a creamy custard and served in a perfectly hollowed-out egg, with chervil root for a bit of crunch and meadowsweet for herbal back notes.  We'd barely gotten over our appreciation for the first fish course when a second followed:  langoustines two ways, served in a bit of tasty broth with kohlrabi that had been given time to go soft and soak up the flavours.  (The notes in the Riverford veg delivery box always explain away the kohlrabi with "it's very popular in Germany"; if I could make it taste like this, I'd be happier about receiving it!)  The subtle Japanese elements here were umeboshi ... a fruit ... and a herb called shiso.  And, no doubt, the precision plating with flowers that channeled the horticultural perfection of a ikebana flower arrangement.

The dish of the night, for me, came next.  Regular readers will know that I'm a sucker for foie gras and have eaten far more than my fair share.  But never combined with sweet chestnut and pistachio (another favourite of mine), beetroot and sour cherry.  The sommelier paired this with some rose sake, sweet but with a dry finish, that pushed the whole thing right over the edge into sheer perfection.  It's one of those stand-out dishes I will remember for a long time.

It was so good, it nearly overshadowed the local pork that came next.  But it didn't, because: I've never had pork "shabu shabu" before (thinly-sliced, cooked quickly in boiling water); the accompanying pork belly was incredibly succulent; and pork with eggplant (aubergine) is a revelation I need to repeat.

The cheese cart arrived to divide savoury from sweet.  A solid, traditional offering, this was the course I could most easily have lived without.  But then I would have missed the spot-on pairing of a creamy, Belgian dark ale with the cheese.  There's one to try at home.

The menu promised two sweets, first a lavender honey ice cream.  Curiously, it was the secondary element, fig and oxalis pistou (note another use of little-known herbs), that took pride of place.  It was essentially a tartare-style patty of diced fig meat with the ice cream on the side, and a real treat for anyone who loves that fruit.  The final course was a celebration of pumpkin, yuzu (an Asian citrus) and carrot.  I appreciated this course intellectually, as a testimony to how sweet vegetables can gender-bend to the dessert side of things.  As an American, pumpkin for pudding is no stretch for me.  And I loved the presentation, arranged on a striking pottery plinth somewhere between pillow and altar.  But as a dessert lover, I was a bit disappointed.  Where was the chocolate?

I needn't have worried.  Noting that it was both our wedding anniversary and my birthday, the team wheeled out a third dessert course to wrap things up.  I was already well past replete and heading for stuffed when confronted with five more little chocolate-based sweets, one a mousse revealed by lifting up a delightfully kitschy "lucky cat".  A great element of fun to wrap up a very serious gourmet experience.

Geisels Werneckhof is a tiny place, with just two rooms and a handful of tables seating up to 50.  That allows for plenty of personal attention under the firm front-of-house direction of Julia Pleintinger.  Everyone was aware of our special occasion and made a fuss over us.  Though this isn't at all a touristy place, everyone spoke to us in English.  And everyone ... most particularly chef and sommelier ... realised we were serious about our food and wine and took the time to chat and give us details about our experience.  This remarkable meal was a high point of the whole trip, and I suspect it will be quite a while before we find another culinary experience that surprises and delights in such equal measure.

La Distillerie repeats magic to remain pick as ultimate restaurant

There's always an element of risk when you try to repeat a magical experience. Without the sparkling novelty of discovery, can a second time ever live up to the first?

Thus I approached dinner last Saturday at La Distillerie in Luxembourg's Bourglinster Castle with a bit of trepidation. This place amazed and delighted me on a magical afternoon 18 months ago (see my original review here) and has reigned as the supreme restaurant in my memory ever since. Would it be as good as I remembered?

Better.

Foodies of the world, listen up. Your correspondent has reviewed a healthy number of Michelin stared establishments in these posts. La Distillerie is better. I've been to the three-starred Fat Duck, which appears in most rankings as one of the top three restaurants in the world, and I promise you that chef René Mathieu will give you an equally extraordinary meal, with even better tastes, for £100 less. In a charming, small dining room that accommodates just eight or ten tables of unpretentious diners, in medieval architecture with lovely views of unspoiled countryside. Come hungry, and do the works. The "Poesie Culinaire" features 11 amazing courses, with a matching wine flight of seven well coordinated, interesting glasses. And, obviously, come here with people you like. Because you're going to be sharing this remarkable experience for at least four hours.

Chef Mathieu comes to Luxembourg via Belgium, and spent three years cooking for the grand duke before moving to this small castle half an hour outside of Luxembourg city. He combines an ardent passion for "terroir" and local, seasonal food with an artistry once deployed to delight diplomats and crowned heads of Europe. He changes his menu with the seasons; our winter meal was entirely different from our last visit in July, and featured lots of root vegetables, fish and meat. (This variety is what I wanted upon my return visit to the Fat Duck, instead getting 50 per cent of the menu repeated. When you're dining at this level, and paying these prices, you want to repeat the quality, but not the exact food.)

We started with Mathieu's trademark "apericubes", little bite sized morsels atop skewers arranged in a mix of colours and shapes that made the dish as much modern art as appetiser. Some were more delicious than others, particularly the foie gras dipped in chocolate. (The only repeat from the last meal, but even this was done a bit differently.) A strange but glorious combination. The next amuse bouche was less successful if, like me, you're not a fan of poached eggs. The egg sat delicately in a small wine glass, surrounded by a light cauliflower sauce. Though I couldn't quite like the egg, I have to admit that the sauce completely transformed my opinion of a vegetable I thought I hated. The maximum amount of flavour had been extracted, convincing me that if every floret tasted like this, I'd be a fan.

Then it was time to get down to serious business, with a progression of four fish dishes. Each was remarkably different from the other, giving you a great appreciation for just how wide the possibilities are when dealing with seafood. Each plate was exquisite, particularly the crab claw that had been arranged on a painting of cucumber sauce that turned the plate into a piece of Italian marbled paper. Another course had a rich, buttery piece of langoustine tucked into a hollow in a hot stone, covered with a pile of delicate froth (rather than sauce) that melted in your mouth. But my favourite dish in this range was the scallop with carrots. Sounds fairly prosaic, eh? The single scallop at the centre of the long, rectangular plate was succulent and perfectly done. On either side, two quenelles of carrot puree. These showed off the range of colour and taste, running from white, to yellow, to the familiar orange, to black. Like the cauliflower, each taste was a concentrated burst of the essence of the vegetable, and the difference between flavours in each variety was wonderfully surprising.

Having done justice to the seas, it was time to move inland and start working towards a flavour climax. Bring on the foie gras. In this case, grilled in Lagavulin whisky, and the universally acknowledged favourite dish of the night. The main essence here was smoke: the plates came out under glass domes, whisked away simultaneously so we could each breathe deeply of aromas of charcoal, peat, smoke and meat. One whiff was the condensation of every chilly but delightful winter bonfire you've ever attended. The whisky was a surprisingly fine match to the foie gras, complemented by the sweet flavours of dried fruits and Jerusalem artichoke.

La Distillerie features a charming maitre d' with a remarkable memory; he clearly recalled our visit in the summer of 2008. He took us through our matching wines, up to this point introducing us to four different whites. In fact, the range of the wine selections was pleasingly broad, escaping the usual parade of French classics to include the USA, Italy, Chile and even Luxembourg. My favourite amongst the whites was the Wente "Morning Fog" Chardonnay '06 that was matched with the foie gras; delightful to see a Californian option showing off for European gourmets. The rest of the table leaned towards the Ciprea Pecorino, matched with a white fish slow cooked with truffles. No, not pecorino cheese, but a little known Italian grape variety from the Abruzzi and Marche regions. The wine was complex in flavor, deep golden in colour and almost musky in scent, reminding me of some of the best chablis we tried on our Burgundy trip. While my taste buds went for the simpler American notes, the Pecorino was definitely the discovery of the night.

In fact, red wine lovers would have been disappointed, as there was only one offering with the main courses. This was a classic Burgundy from Sauvigny les Beaune, which had a pleasing combination of fruit and sharpness well suited to cut the rich, fatty luxury of the veal that came next. The meat here was a bit of a let down after the perfection of the foie gras, but I was deeply impressed by the side dish, a bar of parsnip and cabbage mash dressed with boiled whole grains and topped with liquorice (not the candy, the actual root).

We'd peaked. It was clearly time to transition to the sweets. Cheese, please. And out came one of the most unusual cheese boards I've ever sampled, with four bite-sized morsels each composed to pack a flavourful punch while pushing you to consider interesting combinations. My pick: goat's cheese wrapped around a grape, topped by a beetroot puree. The soft cheese with banana and rum has to be mentioned for the sheer bravado of the pairing, though I wouldn't do it at home. Brie with truffles and celery milk, however? Happy to eat that again, though I couldn't possibly figure out how to produce it in my own kitchen. We were sipping the first of two dessert wines here, a chardonnay/sauvignon blanc mix that reminded me how good sweet whites are with cheese, and how limited we can be in England always pairing with the port.

By this time our taste buds were overwhelmed with musky, strong notes and a palate freshener was in order. And out came ... perfume. The chef presented us with a culinary interpretation of Yves Saint Laurent's Parisienne, the scent sprayed on a card next to a dessert of dark berries, cream, flower petals and white chocolate that somehow managed to exactly mimic the perfume, while tasting like a dream. And finally to dessert, an artistic compilation of four sweets arranged, as per those long-ago apericubes, as much as modern art as food. While each taste was delightful, the cube of dark chocolate fondant dipped in white chocolate and then coated in gold leaf was the one we all went home remembering. This was a chocolate bar for the very rich, and very picky. Paired with this was a sparkling red wine called Desiderio from Italy's Piedmont region, another much discussed discovery. Of course, there was another artistic platter of sweets to accompany the coffee. A chocolate morsel here, some glazed fruit there ... after the 10 preceding courses and eight glasses of wine, I can't remember all the details of this, other than recalling that it was all so good, I wished I had room to try everything. But alas, even my avaricious taste buds had given up in sheer, happy exhaustion.

The cost for a night of decadent indulgence? At current exchange rates, £150 including service, coffee and an additional champagne before we got started. As mentioned at the start, this is a full £100 less than the chef's menu with wine flight at the Fat Duck. Of course, you have to get to Luxembourg. But if you're looking to say "carpe diem" in a big way, this is the place. Get there now, before René Mathieu is discovered by Michelin, American food writers and the rest of the arbiters of foodie heaven. He's already been named chef of the year in Luxembourg and been awarded 18 out of 20 on the Gault Millau scale. International acclaim is bound to follow the local fame, and he'll soon have prices and waiting lists like his more famous colleagues. I'm going to be very happy to say "I knew him when..."