On Saturday there was a fine photograph of our chef in The Guardian's food section. We expected some decent copy too but that didn't materialise. Still, the photo is great and it credits the chef and the hotel.
The article is mostly about foraged food. Food that is found for free in the woodlands, landscapes and seashores of this area.
Two larger than life figures, the foragers, regularly trawl the area around here to see what is available. They know what to look for, where it grows, when it is in season and what is edible. Every few days they turn up at the restaurant with their boxes of strange looking produce and discuss with the chefs the potential opportunities of this stuff.
Left to me I suspect I would hurl it into the green compost bin at the council tip.
Some of it, frankly, is disgusting. I have eaten some pretty odd weeds which I am reassured are edible but I suspect even cattle would steer clear of. The texture and flavour of some has left my tongue feeling like a lump of rubber underlay.
But some of it is strangely fascinating. Maybe it is deeply rooted in our hunter-gatherer psyche. I don't know. The ability to source natural foods from the environment in which they thrive - not aisle two in the supermarket - is very exciting. It makes me feel kind of clumsy and stupid not knowing the delicious qualities of fat hen. But also strangely reinvigorated at the potential of these wonderful ingredients. Ingredients that pull the very best from the dishes they complement.
The photo in The Guardian is part of our coming of age in the restaurant. We are now starting to attract the attention of the people we want to take notice of us.
The food is sensational and right up there with the best of them. Diners experience something they are unlikely to experience elsewhere. Something that makes us stand apart from the rest.
So the frozen food rep I suggested come back next week might want to take a rain check.