Luxury locked away

RESTAURANT review: Stormy start to a meal... Jill Turton at Yorebridge House, Bainbridge. Pictures by Gary Longbottom.

What would you expect to pay for dinner in “Britain’s most romantic hotel” (according to some travel website)? £44.50 before drinks and service feel about right?

It better be good. Of course, the location on the edge of Bainbridge is a five-star starter in anybody’s book with the brooding summit of Addlebrough due south and the clipped lawns of the sandstone mansion flanked by the rivers Bain and Ure. Soak it all up in the outdoor hot tub, winter or summer, if that’s your thing.

Peering into the high Georgian windows of the formal dining room, it certainly has the luxury boutique look: big lamps, chunky candlesticks, rococo mirrors and modish deep aubergine walls, a console table down the centre carries a couple of Chinese style lanterns flanked by artificial palms. Through a hatch we can spy a brigade of young lads in the kitchen, out front it’s smiley local girls dressed in black.

We should be there, too, but unfortunately we’ve been locked out. And it’s windy. And it’s raining. We ring the bell, bang on the door, knock on the window, try round the back, wave frantically at the tables of bemused diners feeling like Bob Cratchit watching the rich folk gorging themselves. Finally, I burst in on a kitchen door and help is summoned. Not very romantic.

The maitre d’ is on his knees, or possibly even lower, in apology. “So sorry; never happened before in 10 years. So sorry; someone must have dropped the latch on the way out.” The door bell? “Oh, sorry, no, it’s an antique bell, it doesn’t work.” Two complimentary glasses of champagne did work. Apology accepted.

Thc champagne arrived with our first taster, a slate arranged with tapenade bread sticks, goats’ cheese dip and little spoons of crab mousse, pea puree and caviar. All very nice. Then followed a shot glass of mushroom veloute topped with a thyme foam. Very nice again. With a couple of glasses of Riesling alongside, this was beginning to look promising.

Our two starters were tartare of black bream and apple puree and a plate of scallops with pork belly and truffle. The latter was especially good. Nicely seared scallops with a soft, rich and soothing slice of pork belly with slicks of carrot puree well infused with truffle. Scrumptious.

The uncooked black bream had been pressed into a ring mould and topped with beetroot and a few salad leaves. It was fresh and light and clean tasting but the decorative snail trail of apple puree round the perimeter of the slate (they like their slates at Yorebridge) was so minimal it served next to no purpose either as taste or texture.

Far more generously, the fillet steak that followed was a well-seasoned hunk and as precisely cooked as precisely requested: the rare side of medium rare. It sat on strips of celeriac and came with a herby mix of minced mushrooms. Fillets of grey mullet were also satisfying served with a razor shell filled with cockles and mussels.

At dessert we went for the Yorebridge Lemon Meringue, an unnecessarily deconstructed lemon meringue pie that was a lemon tart with meringue alongside. The peanut butter parfait came in a cone shot through with a couple of wafers and a scoop of chocolate sorbet. Neither hit the heights of the preceding courses but were perfectly competent.

With three glasses of wine and service, we’d clocked up £120. It had better be good and it was. The room was glowing, the table service just right. Dale Exelby, the head chef fed us well – his cooking is well judged, well presented and (apple puree excepted) well free of all those bits and bobs too many average chefs indulge in to make out they are great artists.

So while the overnight guests headed for their starched sheets and power showers, we headed for the silent lanes of Wensleydale. Like our arrival, there was no-one to see us out, say goodbye or thank us. Pity. We crept out of the front door, dropping the latch as we went.