368. Christmas Lunch.

 

In my experience, clever food is not appreciated at Christmas. It makes the little ones cry and the old ones nervous - Jane Grigson. Though where and when she said/wrote this, I have not yet discovered.

“glistening, poached smoke haddock…”

  No matter, it was Christmas Day at Fishmore Hall, a grey but mild sort of day, the sort with which we have now become so familiar. Titterstone Clee Hill hadn’t moved to any noticeable degree as far as the dog and I could discern, and was still looking down distantly on this splendidly refurbished, quietly elegant late Georgian place of residence and the temporary residents were now comfortably accommodated in this quiet little corner of earth. I had chosen a modest breakfast of a little square of glistening, poached smoked haddock sans all the trimmings of poached egg and Hollandaise but enhanced by a melting pat of butter and a quick dusting of black pepper. 

  And so, at 2PM, complimentary glass of sparkling wine in hand, I was seated in the bright conservatory which housed Forelles and Christmas lunch was now taking off and in the air (not literally, obviously). First, warm focaccia with a choice of cultured butter or olive butter. Then, a delightful amuse gueule of beetroot and horseradish which would have made a fine cold summer soup, in my opinion.

    The starter was a happy continuation of my terrine experience which I was enjoying during this trip to Fishmore; this time it was a delicious strip of ham hock terrine, suitably salinaceous (I will use neologisms if I want to), served with a celeriac remoulade which really didn’t work for me.

  The main - I inevitably chose traditional turkey with all the trimmings, and nothing was missing - was sizeable and enjoyable. The roast turkey was moist and tasty and the vegetables all very pleasing except the sprouts which were hard and somewhat bitter - sprouts, so controversial, must be a nightmare for chefs - should one serve them uber-al dente or should one veer towards the view of the English vox populi that sprouts, if they are done at all - which they of course must at Christmas - should be well done and not rock hard as the cognoscenti often pontificate they should be.

  The apt intermediate dish of Yuletide clementine with a champagne espuma was suitably refreshing and that left just the pudding to see off.

  

  Alas, Christmas pudding is far too rich for my tastes. I’ve sat at lunch tables and dinner tables being stared down by Christmas pudding, more rich than Croesus in a gastronomic sort of way, and my stomach has cried out, “No, no, don’t go anywhere near it, you’ve known its oppressiveness, don’t risk it again” but politeness has made nibble at it and regrets have always followed. However I do like Yorkshire pudding so the presence of cranberry and white chocolate clafoutis on the menu was an instant draw. Tangy with orange marmalade, luxuriously eggy and dotted with cranberries and accompanied by a soothing little quenelle of orange ice cream, this was a light alternative to overbearing plum pudding but still full of festive character.

  Christmas lunch was leisurely and the day moved on to a light buffet supper before sitting down to see who had murdered whom in this year’s Christmas Eastenders. Christmas murder is as common to Eastenders as mince pies are to real people’s Christmases. And in the end, despite Jane Grigson’s epigram, clever food was appreciated this Christmas at Fishmore and there were no crying little ones or any diagnosibly nervous old ones that I could see. Just an elderly dog who needed a late night sniff around outside.