psmv5: Dining out west: part one

Starting with the baker with the antique oven in Horrabridge, where we took a small white, a large granary, a dough ring and some buns. The buns being entirely eatable, but proving the point that provincials like plenty of sugar in their buns. Applied in such a way as not to come off if you tap the bun against the plate. A relative of the Chelsea bun.

The baker, who had not yet moved onto payment by plastic, told me that he had survived seven downturns and would no doubt survive this one. Large rises in the price of oil (to fire his oven, converted from coke) notwithstanding.

Passed on white pudding from the butcher at Yelverton. Our busy schedule did not seem to admit an opportunity to cook it, which was a pity.

Next stop, the Rock Inn at Yelverton, where we were served by the same young lady as in May, but rabbit stew was no longer on the menu.

Pork belly for him, perched on the mandatory mound of mashed potato. I dare say that there was a dab of vegetables and a dollop of brown gravy to go with it. A very satisfactory establishment, very fit for our purpose, quite busy, mainly with pensioners, on this Monday lunchtime.

The barmaid also explained that the Inn had not done rooms for many years, despite the name. One supposes that rooms did better back in the days when people from Plymouth used to come up in droves to walk the moors.

Next, the Sea Trout Inn at Staverton, near Totnes, a place where they take their food very seriously. And a place where we have taken sea trout in the past.

The bread to start was very good, much better than is usual in establishments of this sort. Then pie for him, perched on top of a much more arty mound of mashed potato than they managed at Yelverton. Plus some interesting vegetables. Once again, very satisfactory, very fit for purpose.

A forked screwdriver, lodged in a gutter outside. Guessing, the sort of thing an upholsterer might use to remove the dome-headed tacks that used to be used to fix leather, fabric and trimming to frame. Action a bit like a nail bar.

While at Wetherspoon's of Teignmouth, one of the few eateries open late on a Thursday afternoon, we discovered that the all important steak and kidney pudding was off the menu. Not to return until the autumn. But they were busy, with most of the ground floor tables filled, so there was demand. I took a rather good fish and chips. Better, I thought, than the average chipper.

Rewarded by catching the rising moon to the east, rising large and pale over the sea.

More or less by chance, we wound up the first phase of the proceedings by taking luncheon at the Riverford Field Kitchen. An outfit we had first come across six years previously, subsequently visiting their Islington outfit, as noticed at reference 3. A venture which we learned had been abandoned in favour of the Bull at Totnes, which from reference 4 looks to be a rather grander fooderie than the Duke of Cambridge at Islington.

Riverford is actually a small place on the Dart, presumably once a ford, now a bridge. While the Field Kitchen is about a kilometre to the north, sandwiched between the ponds of Wash and the electricity sub-station.

Rather more of a factory than you might think from the lunch place, with some large sheds just behind. And a very large lorry pulling out as we pulled in. The organic vegetable delivery business, detailed at reference 5, looks to be doing very well. We wondered whether they actually grew their own, or whether they took the stuff in from farmers roundabout. All properly vetted for orgoness, of course.

Back at the field kitchen, the deal for lunch was that you booked, paid a deposit and got no choice, except for drinks and dessert. Which must make it hugely easier to deliver good food, but not so good for some of the fussy eaters one comes across. I remember some of the children at our children's birthday parties were very bad in that way: one can only hope that they grew out of it. Not like when we were young, when families were not long out of rationing and you ate what was put in front of you.

But busy all the same. The restaurant was a high-end timber framed shed, more or less full this Friday lunchtime, with perhaps 35 covers. Not bad for a place right out in the country, at the tail end of the holiday season. Staff energetic and entertaining. Young men back of house, young women front of house. A managerial looking suit lurking in the margins.

Two or three dishes to start with. Bread and veggies. Then we took the meat option, which was bavette with a whole lot more vegetables. Bavette presumably being the French for flank steak, here lightly cooked, rather in the way of the Iberico presa noticed at reference 6. Good, but I think it would have been improved if it had been cooked for a little longer.

White wine from Sharpham, down on the Dart somewhere, for which see reference 7. No record made at the time, so name lost, but it was rather good. Much better than the average wine from this country.

The guts of my dessert was the sort of thing that you usually put inside a praline, that is to say nutty. Topped with plums and some species of cream. Rather good.

An excellent meal. We shall go back if occasion presents itself.

But we probably won't be taking advantage of the organic hugging venue snapped above. Or the more enclosed version next to it, presumably intended for the less hardy huggers.

PS 1: oddly, neither the wine nor the brandy we had at the Field Kitchen made it to the drinks menu at the Bull at Totnes. So still none the wiser as to their names.

PS 2: irritatingly rather than oddly, I feel sure that bavette has cropped up before, quite recently, but search of the relevant archives fails to turn anything up. Perhaps it appeared on some menu somewhere, but we were not tempted on that occasion.