Chef Eric Snaith, Titchwell Manor, Norfolk
Discomfit is rarely my word of the day. Embarrassment, unease, mortification – they all cover the territory. But just after seeing Alpha Papa, the Alan Partridge film set inside “North Norfolk Digital Radio”, I could think of no other word as I headed north on the A11 – Partridge’s favourite road – into, er, northern Norfolk. I half expected the radio to start yelling “A-HA!”
Surprisingly, it was a blockbuster art show that drew me to the area and that’s never happened before. Outside the capital, it’s Edinburgh and Liverpool that make the running, not King’s Lynn. A-ha.
Houghton Hall is the former home of British Prime Minister Robert Walpole who, at the peak of his wealth and power, had amassed a quite astounding art collection (not to be confused with Horace Walpole, flamboyant fils, who created Strawberry Hill House, Britain’s first Gothic revival mansion where he wrote Castle of Otranto, the world’s first Gothic novel). Anyway, one day, Catherine The Great wandered by and took a shine to it all. She bought the lot, and whisked it off in crates to The Hermitage in St Petersburg, where it has remained for over 200 years.
All the pubs have been gastrofied; you have to book, trousers must be red corduroy, and flawlessly restored villages sit beside some of the finest beaches and seascapes England has to offer
It was brought back this year, on short term loan, to hang in the same rooms, just as it had in Walpole’s time. You might have seen the documentaries about it, but there’s nothing quite like a wander around the corridors of power inside a Palladian mansion, up close to Van Dyck and Rembrandt. I found it rather dry, but made worthwhile by one of the permanent installations in the extensive, manicured grounds; a Skyspace by James Turrell, of whom I have been a devotee – a disciple even – for years. Set in a quiet copse, the work consists of an eco building from within which one contemplates the sky. It may be the poor relation to Turrell blockbusters, like this summer’s Guggenheim spectacular, but it is quietly magnificent nonetheless.
We curtailed our visit early and set off for Boden Land, the coastal area of Londoners’ second homes scattered along the North Norfolk shoreline where all the pubs have been gastrofied; you have to book, trousers must be red corduroy, and flawlessly restored villages sit beside some of the finest beaches and seascapes England has to offer. When you do find a local shop, expect it to be heavy on the locally picked samphire and sushi making kits, rather than tins of beans.
Farm to table produce at Titchwell Manor, Norfolk
It’s in this well-heeled hood that Eric Snaith is to be found, cheffing and cooking and winning all the local competitions. His parents have run Titchwell Manor for many years and for the last ten Eric has been refusing to accept the notion that gastropub grub is all there is. Not only that, he’s self-taught so the rules, were there to be any, are there to be bent.
The property itself, on the isolated sea road between Thornham and Brancaster, looks normal enough from the outside, but instead of the expected leather and wood interior set against Farrow and Ball “Mizzle”, there’s a brazen canary yellow sofa, cheeky Eames-style cafe chairs, and bold-as-brass wallpaper designs that would scare horses, small children and grannies alike. No country prints, driftwood, or mariners’ signal lights. And no beige.
Which is where we come to the food. You can certainly have gastrofare, steak and chips, fish and chips, pies and all that hearty stuff which will always be popular among the walkers and birdwatchers staying overnight in the hotel’s cottages out back, but on our visit three tables – including ours – opted for Eric’s tasting menu. Not that we got all the fireworks, some were reserved for a portly birthday boy who got a giant roman candle stuck in his cake.
We had our taste buds tickled for hours. We weren’t timing it (and tasting menus tend to leave the end of the evening slightly hazy if you’ve also opted for the wine matching), but canapés of tiny eel fritters with tom yum soup, a hibiscus lemon grass tea and gussied up tonka beans indicated immediately that we were not going to be bored.
A fresh out the sea scallop tartare was heavy on the equally fresh and earthy garden beetroot, light on the summer truffle, and even lighter on the samphire, which grows in the marshes outside the door. The star dish came next, somewhat amazingly: an unshowy barbecued onion, bursting with sweetness and flavour, emphasised by a slight charring and a dollop of avocado mousse. A perfect example of letting the ingredients shine. I don’t think I’ve ever been that impressed by the humble onion before.
In a separate chat with the chef, I established that “local suppliers” around these parts invariably mean the farmers and fisherfolk Eric went to school with, so dishes of brill and lobster with pigs trotter, fennel and buttermilk, or Norfolk lamb with mugwort and smoked tomato are the real deal; reared, caught, or grown outside the windows.
He calls the menu at Titchwell Manor “Conversation” rather than “tasting” and by the time we got to the Leyda Valley Ventorela Pinot Noir from Chile we were certainly chattering. Desserts and cheese were ushered in for an adventurous denouement; salted yoghurt with grapefruit, honeycomb and olive oil, then “Blue Murder”, a strong blue cheese from Tain, which the last time I looked was in the North of Scotland, not Norfolk, but no matter. It was paired with a Rivesaltes from the Pyrénées, a perfect grande finale.
The following day, en route to London, we picked up – as you do – bags of fresh samphire for two quid at the roadside, along with fresh crab, lobster and scallops from Davies the Fishmonger in Cromer. And while we stopped short of donning a pair of vermillion cords, we did manage an unironic “A-Ha!” in praise of the previous night’s dinner. C
Titchwell Manor, Titchwell, Brancaster, King’s Lynn, Norfolk
01485 210221; titchwellmanor.com