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| Taramasalata – none of that over-pink stuff |
The
food and the travel: those are the key problem areas when traveling in the UK
and both were brought into sharp focus for us last year when we visited Rye.
On the food
front, it wasn’t necessarily just finding somewhere that was serving food when
you needed it that was a problem (although it was, on occasion), but finding
food that was worth eating.
Too
often on that trip, even basic food such as fish and chips or an omelette was
poor.
On the
travel front, if you don’t have a car, then you’ll find it difficult getting
around. Public transport is far from brilliant – while it is certainly
expensive. Last year, for a short trip from Winchelsea Beach back to Rye after
a lengthy walk, we paid £5 for two adult to climb aboard a Stagecoach bus.
This year,
getting back from Hythe to Folkestone – around five miles, given where we got
on and off – the bus fare was £6.40 (also Stagecoach). To clarify: both of
these were daytime trips and outside any rush hour.
And
dear Stagecoach – the mock leather seats do not compensate.
According
to the Financial Times, the company’s pre-tax profits fell by 37% in the year to
April this year (partly due to capital expenditure). The poor lambs only made a
meager £104.4m.
Rip-off
Britain, anyone?
But back to
the food.
Driven out
of London by the second festival to be staged just 100m away from us this
summer, we decided to go away on a bank holiday for the first time.
Time was
short. The flyer informing us that the park would be busy for six nights, plus
set-up, rehearsal and then the strike, landed on the doormat just over a
fortnight ago.
The
Other Half suggested a longer sojourn in Folkestone than our first visit in
June, when a two-day rap/dance/garage/whatever-the-hell festival had, by the
end of the Saturday, left us in danger of throttling each other and in vital
need of escape the following day.
Discovering
that it’s only an hour (on the fast, more expensive) train from St Pancras to
Folkestone, we’d headed to the coast.
This time
around, we managed to book a couple of nights in an old-fashioned hotel on the
promenade. A week later, we suddenly thought that, given that it was a bank
holiday, it might be worth considering eating opportunities in advance.
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| Bass done scarily 'raw' |
After
a spot of Googling, we were just able to grab a 9.15pm booking at Rocksalt, the
town’s only eatery to bother the good people at Michelin.
Having
checked in to our hotel, we headed down to the harbour in search of a late
lunch – still over six hours before dinner. Rocksalt is actually slap bang on
the harbour – an unobtrusive, modern building that backs onto a collection of
traditional fish ‘n’ chippies, seafood cabins and fishmongers.
There we
bought fodder and sat down on a bench to eat, free entertainment provided by an
example of local colour to our left, regaling listeners with something or
other, while swigging from a bottle of red wine, and a seagull who was trying
to telepathically divorce us from some of our chips (they’re polite seagulls in
Folkestone), while watched and mimicked by a young gull.
Two points
here. First, it’s tempting, but don’t feed gulls (yes, I know I’ve done so in
the past): it’s making them behave aggressively and causing talk of gull culls.
Second, the
takeaway was perfectly good for what it was. My complaints about food are not a
snob thing that excludes such eating: it’s simply that, whatever type of meal
I’m having, I still expect it to be good for what it is.
Indeed, the
pub lunch that we had the following day at the Britannia Inn in Dungeness,
after a morning spent walking over difficult terrain, in a howling wind, was
also an example of being absolutely right for what and where it was (in my
case, scampi, chips and mushy peas, with a glass of good Kentish ale on the
side).
But I
digress.
On Saturday
evening, after dark had descended, we too descended back to the harbour. We
were particularly fortunate to be offered a table on the terrace, directly
above the lapping sea.
I say
“particularly fortunate”, because inside was rather noisy. So was outside, to
be fair, but since it wasn’t enclosed, it was less annoying. There is something
about British diners: going out for drinks first before going on to eat.
Rocksalt
is not a curry-after-the-pub eatery. The anti-social – and loud at those levels
is anti-social – diners were neither posh nor ‘chavs’. And it was not younger
diners that were the loudest either. A middle-aged group sitting four tables
away from us could be heard throughout, with one of the women having to be
escorted to and from the loo, and then later, out to a taxi, as she couldn’t
stand up properly.
As
we neared the end of our own meal, a group inside could be heard boisterously
quaffing pints and ordering lobster, having arrived late. The staff looked less
than impressed.
It’s
not a joke when I say that I have no memory of anything comparable on the
Continent (unless one is near Brits or visitors from the US).
But
anyway, to the food.
As
an amuse-bouche, we were brought fresh bread with a platter of toppings: the
house taramasalata, butter, a butter mixed with pork fat, seaweed crisps and,
of course, salt.
Every
bit of that was lovely – and my goodness, that taramasalata was a dream of real
delicacy, while the porky butter, when sprinkled with a little of the salt, was
... well, I’ll let your imaginations do the work.
I
had a starter of bass, marinaded in gin, and served with a scallop, fried in a
batter made with tonic water. It came with shreds of red chili, black olives,
beautifully crisp pickled cucumber slices and a scatter of baby coriander
leaves.
Little
aside – this being Britain, our waitress had to check that I did know that it
wasn’t cooked.
The
fish was delightful: tender and delicate, while the scallop complimented it
nicely and the garnishes worked fine – even the coriander, which as baby
leaves, wasn’t overpowering and soapily unpleasant, as I usually find it.
The
Other Half enjoyed his duck egg with black pudding, girolles and samphire –
even though he thought the egg a fraction overdone.
For
a main, he opted for the lemon sole with a hollandaise and I went for the Dover
sole – in my case, this came with a brown butter with capers, and was simply
superb.
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| The Other Half's duck egg, girolles and samphire |
Delicate
flesh, incredibly fresh and excellently cooked, with the capers cutting through
the natural sweetness of the fish – this was why simplicity is wonderful.
For
accompaniments (another British oddity) we chose Kentish cauliflower dressed
with cobnuts and lemon, and a selection of seasonal green beans and peas.
Both
were good – the cauli was a veritable treat and will be tried at home.
For
dessert, The Other Half enjoyed a gin jelly, with Kentish strawberries and a
lime and tonic sorbet, while I availed myself of a row of the restaurant’s own
sorbets: raspberry, strawberry and black cherry, which simply sung with an
abundance of real fruitiness.
On
the wine front, we kept it simple with a Domaine Saint Felix 2015 from the
Languedoc: a light white with citrus notes.
House-made
fudge – instantly evoking northern bonfire nights of childhood – came with
coffee.
A
top-class meal, with very good, pleasant service, Mark
Sargeant’s Rocksalt may not be
cheap, but for this sort of dining experience, it was far from being over the
top.
Fast forward 24 hours.
Almost from the moment we decided to make this trip,
we had planned to visit Dungeness on our full day in the area, traveling to and
from nearby Hythe on the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway. As such, we
envisaged feeling fairly knackered by the time we got back to the hotel that
evening.
With that in mind and after internet searches revealed
a paucity of decent places to eat on a Sunday night – chains in the town are
noisy – we had settled for the idea of dining in the hotel.
Like others of its ilk, our temporary abode thinks it
still has to do Edwardian grandeur. Which helps to explain the attempted silver
service and a menu that is stuck firmly in the 1970s.
Pity the poor vegetarian – they, and anyone else
requiring ‘gentle’ food – faced the prospect of an omelette. And on the basis
of the scrambled egg at breakfast ...
When away from work, I’ve dined in such places rather
more often than The Other Half, and so was perhaps less surprised by the whole
business – and it wasn’t the worst I’ve experienced anyway.
I feel for the staff: they’re not trained to the
standard the hotel is attempting and they’re totally flustered when, for
instance, you actually make a selection from the wine list that they’ve give
you.
Heaven forfend if you actually ask for a bottle of
wine – not just a glass of the house whatever.
It was an £18 Gewürztraminer. After waiting ... and
waiting ... and waiting ... I called the waiter over to ask what was up, only
to be informed that his colleague was in the cellar, hunting. Moments later
came news that it wasn’t to be found.
Next try – a £10 bottle of an English white that was
on the wine list’s ‘sale’ page.
Some time later – by which point I’d finished my
centimetre-thick slab of Ardennes paté, served with melba toast, a doorstep of
cucumber, a quarter of tasteless tomato and two fistfuls of frizzy lettuce
doused in a thick Balsamic glaze – we heard that that was gone too.
“It’s been a busy weekend”, our waiter offered by way
of a difficult-to-believe explanation.
We quickly ordered a large glass each of the house
white. It turned out to be inoffensive and utterly unmemorable. Unmemorable,
that is, except for costing £6 a glass.
For a main, we both opted for cod fillet in a lemon
and herb crumb, with a dill cream sauce. Roast spuds and assorted roast veg
were served on the side, by our waiter.
It wasn’t bad, but have you ever tried cutting into a
roast potato with a traditional fish knife?
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| Dover sole with brown caper butter – and accompaniments |
I concluded with ice cream and strawberries on the
grounds of safety.
Yet around us, other guests were lapping it up and
lavishing praise on the food.
And then there was the family of three from
Yorkshire, who sat down behind us and said they didn’t need to see the menu –
they’d have the roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, but “fetch us one with gravy
on the plate and two with gravy on the side”.
I wish that I could amply describe the Yorkshire-born
Other Half’s expression!
One of the other guests who was enjoying it all sent
his breakfast bacon back on both mornings we were there – demanding it be
cooked more. On the Monday, it was sent back twice before he found it to his taste.
By that stage, they’d presumably substituted meat for old boot leather.
What a contrast.
Yet these contrasts provide yet further evidence of
why traveling in the UK is fraught with issues. Thankfully, Rocksalt proved
that it doesn’t always need to be the case. I really do hope to eat there
again, but in the meantime, could someone unlock the mystery of why so many
Brits struggle to eat a meal in a way that doesn’t impinge on their fellow
diners?
