We were dining at the restaurant almost two years to the day since it had opened. Plenty of time to bed in then, though despite this, its location bamboozled the taxi driver and we spent about 30 minutes racing down dark country lanes, past ominous isolated gleaming white buildings called things like Exosoft. “That’s where the Apocalypse begins”, intoned a fellow diner from the back of the cab as we sped past one particularly secure looking example. Luckily, all thoughts of a viral zombie outbreak were diminished upon arriving at the rather lovely thatched building that houses the pub and restaurant.
The Ginger Fox has managed to retain a sense of itself as a country pub whilst shaking off the more fusty excesses of its ilk. It's a pretty space and the staff relaxed and welcoming. No Slaughtered Lamb glass eyed locals to scare off the city folks. Pity.
A starter of mushrooms on toast with a poached ducks egg signalled confidence in the kitchen and was simplicity itself. A main of lemon sole with potato and Parma ham pancakes was a cosy, motherly hug of a dish. Like slipping into brushed cotton sheets with a hot water bottle. Mango and pineapple trifle finished everything up nicely, a happy homely treat with a jag of old fashioned exoticism. Not everything served up was quite as reassuring. A vegetarian platter looked decidedly confused, not surprising as the restaurant has something of a reputation for discerning carnivores.
No alarms, no surprises. Just confident good British cooking served with a smile out in the country. Probably something of a rarity, now that I think about it.
N.B. I didn't take a camera to the restaurant so I used a picture taken in my garden last year. Of a fox.