The way that they set about their burnt lemon cream and passion fruit sorbet was really rather impressive. They sat side by side and went at the dish head to head, tentatively at first, then delicately and, finally, abandoning all pretence of self-restraint, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, lick, lick, and it was all gone.
"Daddy," said the apple of my heart, "that was really delicious."
"Really, really delicious," said her friend, Mulberry.
"Really, really, really delicious," said the apple.
"Pity we can't have it all over again," said Mulberry ruminatively.
Ah, to be 12 or 13, and life so rich in possibilities and burnt lemon creams.
Actually, I hadn't done so badly myself. The warm chocolate tart with orange cream and toasted almonds had been one of those puddings - at once elegant and satisfying of the deepest pudding urges - that can be made only by masters of their trade. The pastry was thin and crisp, the chocolate just molten, the balance between sweetness and bitterness nicely judged, the orange cream and toasted almonds adding classical quavers and semi-quavers. But then Martin Hadden is a master of his trade.
The last time I encountered his cooking was when he was expertly overseeing the comestibles at the Halkin Hotel in London. Stoke sub Hamdon is a long way from London, a very long way, and the Priory House almost as far removed from the Halkin Hotel. S sub H is a pretty, straggly kind of village, not far from Yeovil, and Priory House occupies the corner between the "V" of two streets. It is pretty, well-lit, unpretentious and comfortable, and not in the least intimidating for two proto-teenagers.
But a master craftsman remains a master craftsman wherever he is. Hadden has worked with some of the best chefs in the country - Shaun Hill, Nico Ladenis to name just two - and, while he has absorbed a certain amount of those masters' voices along the way, nevertheless he has his own, distinctive quality. He isn't a fussy or showy or flash or fantastical cook. In fact, he is the reverse of all those things. His dishes are thoughtful, beautifully composed, the elements firmly disciplined, the principal features quietly integrated.
I started with Brixham fish soup with fromage blanc and dill. It was a superbly crafted bit of cookery. The soup base was smooth, delicately creamy, indubitably, but not overwhelmingly, fishy. There were collops of salmon and Dover sole, firm and muscular, ranged around a small cabbage leaf stuffed with an oyster and some shredded cabbage. Oooh, it was nice, consummate, subtle and satisfying. It was the kind of dish that makes you want to smile in quiet, profound pleasure.
While this was going on, the apple and Mulberry were dealing with a crottin goats' cheese raviolo with red pepper coulis apiece. Honestly, they're queer cattle, kids. I know for certain that had they been offered anything remotely resembling this dish in their respective homes, they would have rejected it with contumely. Away from home, however, Mulberry dealt with her raviolo with majestic determination and shining eye. The apple, on the other hand, deposited most of her cheese on my plate. She found it too strong. But the pasta she praised highly (she is something of an expert in the pasta department), and took to the coulis with rare relish, having formerly expressed severe reservations about it.
Neither of them had much time for the slice of hot foie gras that accompanied their grilled sliced chicken breast and potato purée. But that didn't mar their appreciation of the chicken (notably tasty and succulent), or of the silky mash that went with it.
I was rather preoccupied with the delights of seared calves' sweetbreads with truffle oil mash, carrots and capers. To be truthful, I could easily live without truffle oil in virtually every form, and particularly in mash. My experience with this version did little to change that view, well made though it was. My pleasure in the combination of carrots and capers with the sweetbreads, however, more than compensated for my lack of enthusiasm for the potato. It was a kind of vegetable (or perhaps that should be shrub and vegetable) sweet and sour mix, which lit up the crunchy-crusted, mild-flavoured sweetbreads.
All the while, we were looked after by the tolerant and charming Mrs Hadden. I was, for obvious reasons, uncharacteristically modest in my wine consumption. The bill came to £80 for food, with the odd bob or two more for a series of lime and lemonades and water. Dinner is fixed at £24 for two courses or £28 for three. I thought that was quite reasonable for beautifully crafted food, and the pleasure of the company of my daughter and her friend.
