I’ve been heinously quiet on here for the last couple of weeks as I’ve been away/ill/away/busy/hungover/generally a bit crap. The boyfriend and I have just returned from a week in Arundel, attending the wedding of the lovely Jon and Jo, doing lots of running up hills, chilling out and eating as if our lives depended on it (which of course they do).
Anyway, for visitors to this charming town, here is a precis of our dining experiences.
We did most of our basic shopping at the rather good Co-op (coffee cupcakes, nomnomnom – the Co-op really does seem to have raised its game of late), but for bread, deli stuff and can’t-be-arsed lunches we went to Pallant of Arundel. Very lovely shop, but with a horrid “they saw us coming” feel to it – the prices really are inexcusably high. 60p for ONE FIG <voice rises to hysterical squeak>? They’re four for a quid at Berwick Street market in central London. We wondered whether Pallants issue a 25% discount for Arundel residents. I think what this very good but extortionate shop needs is a competitor.
In sharp contrast, the Arundel butcher next door (01903 882270) is fantastic value for money. A vast piece of rump steak to cook on the barbeque, about 750g and enough for us to eat ouselves to a standstill and still have plenty for a random scorched-earth fry-up on our last morning, was about £11. Friendly staff too.
The sweet shop is worth popping into for tooth-dissolving tablet and fudge in every flavour known to man. An especial highlight for us was watching the lady ahead of us in the queue, who we suspected was going home for a private fudge binge, order flavour after flavour, presumably in order to throw us off the scnet and make us think: “Oh no, it must be for presents, she couldn’t possibly be going to eat all that herself.” Her furtive air make it plain that such was exactly her intention.
On our first night we had the usual Londoners-in-the-provinces moment when we headed out for dinner at about 8.15 and found that most places were closing. Shades Wine Bar let us in, and we had a very good “open burger” – sadly “open” meant sans bun – and a waitress (called Sophie) who managed not to make us feel unwelcome even at that late hour.
The next night, the boyfriend booked a table at The Town House, thinking it was Arundel House. When we turned up at Arundel House, they told us they had no tables, but assured us the Town House would do us proud. Nonetheless, we trailed up the hill with a deep sense of forboding. Totally unfounded this turned out to be – the Town House was absolutely, totally fab. In spite of its grand interior and the fact that we were the youngest customers by some margin, the place has a really relaxed, fun vibe and is excellent value – two courses, a bottle of wine, aperitifs and a digestif came in at almost exactly £100. The food was outstanding. My pigeon with girolle risotto starter was only just beaten by the boyfriend’s truly outstanding potted crab – served in the dearest little jar. My halibut was lovely, and his only complaint about the beef was that the advertised crispy potatoes were too crispy. What-e-ver.
In contrast, Arundel House, which we visited on our last night, was disappointing. The food was hard to fault in its quality, although the portions were rather too large and the presentation rather too formulaic – our starters were served in an identical blob-of-this-blob-of-that-blob-of-this-blob-of-that-blob-of-this-blob-of-that-pileofstuffinthemiddle style – and the service was clunky, slow and off-hand almost to the point of rudeness. It’s not bad, but I’d have swapped it for another evening at The Town House without hesitation. Despite the little off-menu flourishes: over-chilled cucumber with a beetroot mousse on arrival, and an espresso cup of tomato soup (all tomato soup, however authentic, tastes like Heinz to me – clearly I lack a degree of palate refinement), and the price being the same as the Town House, it just didn’t feel like value to me, partly owing to its much more ambitiously priced wine list.
The apogee (I’ve always wanted to use that word – hurrah!) of cynical small-town restaurant indifference, however, was achieved by The Bay Tree. The visitors book in our cottage was full of praise for it, so along we went on Friday night. Our welcome initially was charming – we were told that a larger table would be available shortly (although we had booked), and we were soon ushered through to a lovely spot by the window, from which we had a great view of a nearby table of eight home-counties rah types flouncing out when their drinks failed to arrive with sufficient alacrity. We should perhaps have taken warning from this, but we didn’t – we ordered a bottle of pink fizz and two courses each, and waited.
Our champagne eventually arrived. We fell upon it thirstily, and upon the very good bread. I watched the staff doing that thing bad waitresses do where they wander in, look bemusedly about, and wander out again. They did this several times. The boyfriend asked for another piece of bread. “Is one enough?” asked our waitress (there is no other word for it), insolently. Finally, our starters arrived. A savoury cheesecake for him; a warm goats’ cheese tart for me. Except it wasn’t warm – its acquaintance with the microwave had been a long and intimate one. We waited; we tried ineffectually to catch a server’s eye. After some time, our patience was exhausted, and I went up to the bar and asked the waitress to cancel our main course order as we were leaving. I’ll draw a veil over the rest of the evening – flouncing out of a restaurant, even when you do pay for what you’ve had, is embarrassing for all concerned.
We soothed our feelings with a couple of drinks at Butlers next door, where the bank of microwaves on open display led us to suspect that this quaint town has embraced technology with rather too much enthusiasm. Thereafter, whenever we walked down Tarrant Street, we entertained ourselves by chorusing: “Wrrrrrrrr… wrrrrrrrrr…. wrrrrrrrrrr…. PING!”
We didn’t try The George and Dragon in nearby Burpham (no, you peasant, it’s pronounced Berfam, natch), but the menu looked excllent. Let me know if you visit, but if you hear any tell-tale pings, do a runner.
And a final, brief footnote: we couldn’t help noticing that almost every restuarant in Arundel has tiger prawns on its menu. Why is this? Are they in season in Sussex? Answers on a postcard or in the comments.
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