Castle Inn, Castle Combe: 'Ideally the only time I want yeast mentioned over Valentine’s dinner'
A romantic excursion a mere 36 minute drive from Bristol
While our priority at The Bristol Sauce is obviously restaurants in Bristol, it would be a shame not to once in a while share some of the many excellent eateries we have within a short radius. As such, I tend to consider anywhere within an hour’s drive of Bristol fair game and I think Castle Inn is well worth a visit — it’s not perfect, as PXandTarts will elucidate, but as a bolthole in a particularly picturesque part of the country, I think it’s deserving of your consideration.
Castle Combe has apparently been voted prettiest village in England multiple times. By who, or exactly how many times, I can’t be bothered to find out. But the point remains — if you took a group of American tourists to this little Cotswolds village with its honeypot stone houses, imposing market cross and overflowing abundance of all-round, monarchy-loving, poppy-wearing, winning-the-World-Cup-Once-and-never-shutting-up-about-it British quaintness, they’d refuse to return to gaudy Bath and its ostentatious, obvious baths. A more romantic location could hardly be imagined for a pair of (food) lovers fleeing the oversaturated, soapy sentimental Valentine’s nonsense of Big City Bristol.
I had booked a table for two in the murky depths of 7.30pm. Arriving ten minutes late only compounded our missed opportunity to explore the setting for both War Horse, which I haven’t seen, and the superb thriller-cum-black comedy Slow Horses.
Dinner was at The Castle Inn, which dates to the 12th Century, making it several hundred years older than Machu Picchu and only slightly younger than Donald Trump. And a much better bet for finding half-decent food than either, with a menu that largely plays it safe — soup, fish and chips, steak — but with the odd flourish of cherry harissa or tom yum broth to frighten said slow horses.
Returning from an unplanned tour of the oak-beamed, stone-walled labyrinth on a hunt for the bathroom, I weaved through a group of gathered tweens, evidently bored by the whole fraudulent romance of their respective parents, but still knowing enough to dole out pearls of wisdom to each other. “You can kiss when you’re 18” and “Valentine’s isn’t as good as Pancake Day anyway” (so true) still ringing in my ears, I glanced bashfully across the table at my one true love: bread. A domed brioche had appeared in my absence. Its matt brown surface, cleaved into three mounds, was surprisingly un-shiny, but the crumb was light and buttery, if a touch dry. It came with what was described as “whipped yeast butter”. Ideally the only time I want yeast mentioned over Valentine’s dinner.
I can’t be the only panophile in the south west, as I observed, with a mixture of ridicule and desire, Valentine’s offerings plastered with the slogans “You’re the loaf of my life” and “We’re butter together”. I think if I’d dared present one of those cringe-cards to Meg I’d be walking around with a baguette shoved where the sun don’t shine until a chance at birthday redemption.
Crispy artichoke presumably wasn’t shoehorned onto the menu for its “hearts” in the same way as oysters or, less subtly, aubergine, can be this time of year and anyway, as Cupid famously said, fritta è buona anche una suola di scarpa. The grassy, slightly nutty hearts were far more fun than a pile of salami shaped into a rose.
As I bisected a haggis Scotch egg — the best way to make an egg truly Scotch apart from drowning it in whisky or dressing it up in tartan — I watched the gloriously sunny yolk start to ooze over the coarse, peppery meat and thought “maybe I should review this place”. It doesn’t get much more romantic than that. It truly was an egg worthy of being paraded around the room on a silver salver to the whiny din of bagpipes, surely the most amorous of all musical instruments. If ever a poem was going to be written to address a Scotch egg, it would be this one, lying there on a smulch of pulpy homemade brown sauce, staring at you like the disapproving eyes of prosaically-named furby-ish owl Duo when you’ve forgotten to practice your Swedish.
Pig parts were deployed again in the form of tenderly smoked cheek on tomato and ale ragu, like gravy’s fruitier cousin. The cheek pulled apart into pleasingly fatty strands which clung to the fork, but a surfeit of pickles brought an unwelcome acidity to what should have been a coddling dish of wobbly meat in a sticky, savoury embrace.
Like yeast, any mention of crabs is a potential date-killer, and the tempura’d soft sheller on top of a thinly-sliced platform of pork rib eye would have had me walking out on mine had I not needed a lift home. Whoever was in charge of the fryer had presumably abandoned post and rushed to the broom cupboard for a quickie, as this spread eagled Sebastian was soggy and oozing juice, and not in a good way. The meat underneath was soft and mild, although I prefer mine a bit pinker and a bit fattier. Napa cabbage kimchi and tom yum broth both over promised and under delivered (see also: beef dripping chips) but I’m the last person who should be critical over such shortcomings.
After a flying start, our meal had hit a couple of hurdles. Still, always ones to flog a dead donkey, we soldiered on. Weighing up salted caramel fondant or an intriguing s’mores-type affair with miso marshmallow, malt biscuit and cereal ice cream, I reminisced about the first-rate salted caramel tart I had enjoyed the only other time I’d come to The Castle Inn, with my ex-wife. Which, as you can imagine, went down an absolute treat with my next wife. Unable to come to a decision, we reverted to tossing. Premature, you might think. But the coin called it: rhubarb and custard tart.
Many an average meal has been saved by an excellent dessert, like a last minute thirty yard screamer when you’ve been under the cosh for nine minutes. Sadly this was more like when Spurs are 2-1 down with ten minutes to go; you’re better off cutting your losses and missing the traffic.
Despite looking the part initially, lipstick pink stalks arranged geometrically over a custard the colour of aged parmesan, it soon became clear the tart was all fur coat and no knickers. Or, all undercooked pastry and grainy filling, and no buttery base with velvet custard. The rhubarb did its job properly — winningly, wincingly tart, just tamed by a little sugar and barely denatured by heat. The pastry, though, was as pale and depressing as a Reform Christmas party, as flabby as their leader, and almost as thick, having the same depth as the custard. Ratios all off.
That’s the last time I, a true tart lover, bona fide pastry proselytiser, reject a caramel tart; queen of puddings. Not actual Queen of Puddings, barely more than a glorified hot trifle which, owing to a lack of pastry, can barely be considered more than a princess among genuine pudding aficionados. All I wanted was a fleeting slice of the season wrapped up in the fragile embrace of butter, sugar and flour. What I got was a rhubarb-flavoured doorstop. It’s the hope that kills you. Or, as the shoddy, grimy yet somehow unimpeachably, sardonically prudent Jackson Lamb would say whilst slipping out a fart “it’s not the hope that kills you. It’s knowing it’s the hope that kills you ... that kills you”.
All words by PXandTarts, all photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour
Castle Inn, West St, Castle Combe, SN14 7HN
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A hilarious review of a restaurant that that has always disappointed me.
Keep up the good work!