There are alarming-sounding dishes on Heft’s menus: are we in some kind of themed restaurant? The sort that specialises not so much in gastronomy as a knees-up? Let’s ’ave it, squire: Kentucky fried squid. Gotty’s squeaky cheese. Dickie’s faggot. When Daisy Met Bramble.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Heft may be in an old pub — a sprawling 17th-century inn, in fact — and they’ve kept the wood-fired front of the building all pubby: bar manned by a cheerful beardy bloke, pumps of local beers and sausage rolls. But still, I wouldn’t even call this a gastropub: it’s an ambitious restaurant, with centuries-thick, coolly monastic whitewashed walls framing a setting for us to worship at our plates. Not a karaoke machine in sight.
And I’m down for that worship. There are some godlike culinary powers at play here. A couple of dishes during the no-choice tasting menu have me goggling as if I’ve had a visitation: squid “ramen”, tendrils so slender they’re like angel-hair pasta, suspended in a broth of such shimmering potency it’s singing hallelujahs. There are echoes of smoke and wild fennel (“umbel”, they call it, contrarily) — so much so that the protein becomes almost entirely textural. Or a dessert of rhubarb treated several ways under a cloak of thick, custardy cream that hides chunks of homemade fudge in its depths, like the contents of every Cumbrian teashop distilled down into a bowl.
Impressive. But I have one bit of advice: despite the artistry and technique, the cumulative effect is a little one-note. And that note is umami — blared through a loudspeaker. Over the first few plates there’s a refrain thrumming away: cheese-and-alliums-cheese-and-alliums. Bouncy sourdough crumpet squares with magnificently ripe Baron Bigod cheese and roasted yeast, crowned with crunchy onion shards. “Gotty’s squeaky cheese” — grilled sheep’s milk halloumi by the local cheesemaker Martin Gott, dressed with tiny leaflets of thyme and headily floral honey. The refrain continues even in non-cheese-and-onion dishes. A tiny bowl of Japanese-style chawanmushi — savoury set egg custard, stained burnt umber from dashi; balanced on top, a wafer of caramelised Jerusalem artichoke with slivers of smoked eel, fronds of herbs. Mmm, cheesy and oniony.
Don’t get me wrong, each dish is gorgeous. That chawanmushi has us inelegantly trying to slurp every last morsel. But by the time a number called “Quite possibly the best bag of cheese & onion crisps I ever ate” arrives, I feel like calling weakly for a spritz of citrus. Something green. Perhaps a Farley’s Rusk. This is unequivocally great — petals of crisped sweet onion, a bed of Ragstone cheese studded with silverskin onions, an emerald snowdrift of almost microscopically snipped chives. Piling the mellow goat’s cheese onto the crisps is hedonism squared — but I’m now on the point of fanning self like a Regency maiden whose swain is coming on a bit too strong.
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When it’s not cheese, it’s smoke: “scorched monkfish” is one of the dishes that relies on ballsy carbonisation. Glorious, though, the fish taut and creamy on its balmy sauce flecked with green savoury oil. In a side dish, a wriggle of cucumber (also scorched) interleaved with cushiony mussels on yoghurt laced with more of the aromatic herb. Yes, the kitchen seems to be saying, bring on the hugest flavours: we’re hard enough.
Venison has that faggot on the side, a powerful and liverish meatball. But in case it’s not loud enough on its own, it’s served on “scorched” yoghurt, adding smoke to the offal. And barbecued celeriac. And black walnut puree. And hen-of-the-woods mushrooms slick with bone marrow. I’m getting a Batmanish “Pow!” And indeed, “Blam!”
It’s all probably down to a dedication to seasonality and locality, but a bit of light and shade wouldn’t go amiss. Tasting menus need shape and narrative, not just here’s-another-sock-knock-off-er. As a cheese addict, I didn’t think it was possible to feel over-cheesed, but Heft’s dishes flirt perilously with fromage overkill. At the end of the meal, do we have the cheese course? Well, of course we do. Three perfectly kept specimens, northern hospitality-sized slabs. So do read the previous as scrupulous adherence to the restaurant criticism job in hand rather than, you know, a massive whinge.
Heft has been reaping quite a bit of excited anticipation from restaurant spods — yes, me too — because of chef-patron Kevin Tickle’s CV, a kind of greatest hits of the north’s Michelin botherers. He even rejoiced in the title of head forager at l’Enclume. I don’t usually chunter on about how places get their names. But right now every new restaurant seems to want to signal the seriousness of its mission and passion with some terse four-letter word. (No, not that one. Yet.) But “heft” is so chortlesome, I’m biting. “Like the Herdwick,” the menu says, “Kevin and Nicola Tickle are ‘hefted’ to Cumbria.” So it’s heft in the sense of cleaving or belonging.
But he’s not in the kitchen this evening, just two chefs, both bearded, one large, one small; “Dickie”, of venison faggot fame, is the nickname of one. They — rather diffidently — deliver the odd dish to the table, taking turns with an urbane manager-sommelier. But neither appears to be Mr Tickle. Doesn’t seem to matter — they’re still cutting the mustard. (Mustard, now there’s a thought.) Soon, five guest rooms will feature for those wishing to rest weary heads without having to drive after hitting a brief, interesting wine list. Or, as we do, stay in dog-fragranced local B&Bs. Is it worth the pilgrimage? Even risking death by cheese, it really, really is.
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From the tasting menu
£95 per person
● Gotty’s squeaky cheese glazed in thyme honey
● Baron Bigod, roast yeast crumpet
● Caramelised artichoke, chawanmushi
● Smoked eel, herb fraîche, artichoke
● Smokey umbel, squid ramen
● “Quite possibly the best bag of cheese & onion crisps I ever ate”
● Scorched monkfish, mollusc, broth; mussel kebab with tzatziki
● Venison, celeriac, walnut; Dickie’s faggot
● Rhubarb, clotted cream, burnt caramel
● When Daisy Met Bramble
● Cheese for two £16
Drinks
Fromenteau Josmeyer pinot gris £55
Total
For two, including 12.5% service charge £294
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Heft, High Newton, Grange-over-Sands, Cumbria; hefthighnewton.co.uk
Plate of the nation
Breakfast will never fall flat with Spring Home’s Roti Paratha
No bread in the house, nothing —not even the freezer. Unbelievable. But what’s this, lurking under the petit pois? Spring Home Roti Paratha, another regular freezer staple chez O’Loughlin — along with Freshasia dumplings; both from my wonderful local store Rueanthai in Broadstairs, but also available online. They’re hidden deliberately because they’re so dangerous, ready in moments, disappearing in a couple of bites.
So breakfast is one of these, thrown onto a hot, dry frying pan, as ever enjoying how they puff up and blister. What to put into them from a pathetically bare food stock? (I’ve been on the road again.) Some confit tomatoes, slow-cooked in thyme and garlic and kept in oil, slathered with Lao Gan Ma crispy chilli oil, the one with peanuts and chewy chunks of tofu and kohlrabi. It’s a horribly messy cultural mash-up. And also, absolutely, the breakfast of kings. I finish planning more for lunch, perhaps some kind of evil roti lasagne: dreamy.
Spring Home Roti Paratha; about £1.95 in oriental supermarkets and online
