Midsummer House, Midsummer Common, Cambridge.
I have a guilty secret. The last few weeks in Kigali I've been sneaking furtive looks at restaurant websites. Food porn. Dreaming of where I could possibly casually arrange a serious lunch when I finally returned to the UK. As my tastebuds got more desperate the Michelin star count started rising. Pied a terre? or Tom Aikens maybe? Actually Chef Ramsay's three starrer in London has a lunch offer...
In the end I didn't end up passing through the capital, but spent some time in Cambridge, where Mrs Jiffler had some business for a couple of days. The only restaurant that I'd heard raved about in Cambridge is Midsummer House, a two starred effort overlooking the River Cam. Oh, and look at that - its just a five minute walk from our hotel.
Mrs Jiffler didn't take much persuading in any case, especially as it was me who was buying. Anyhow, we managed to procure a lunch sitting for two on Good Friday from the friendly, courteous, but disconcertingly anorexic looking maitre d'while strolling past on Thursday evening.
On arrival the following day we were greeted by the same anorexic chap of indiscernable Continental European origin. He showed us to our table in the middle of the airy conservatory restaurant. Not the best table in the house, but a few other diners had already arrived, and they had the manner of regular visitors. Bizarrely, views of the River Cam were shielded by a fence. Don't we want the proles looking at us as they walk their dogs?
Cue a shitload of mincing about from assorted waiters and skivvies, all of whom seem to be rake thin, of indistinguishable European origin (bearing in mind Mrs Jiffler and I speak 6 or 7 languages between us we can usually hazard an educated guess), and whose demeanour suggested that they all hated each other. Things seemed a little disorganised to say the least, until a new maitre d' (fitting the skinny profile as before) appeared shaking his head and muttering.
Nibbles consisted of gorgeously mild and nutty lucques olives, flattened cheese breadsticks and potato chips with a fragrant sweet balsamic foam dip. The wine-list arrived (before we'd ordered our food - hello?), and we managed to annoy Lurch, the sommelier by dodging it completely. Mrs Jiffler and I had post-lunch plans, and besides I objected to the serious mark-ups. We stuck with sparkling water at £5.50 (£5.50? Who exactly do they think they are?) - a bottle which encouraged Lurch to top up our glasses every 90 seconds, like we were in some sort of awkward post-communist restaurant where they're trying self conciously to offer 'classy' service.
Our orders were taken swiftly from the lunchtime menu, and we settled back to talking quietly and munching on some lovely sourdough bread with a manly crust. An amuse bouche of champagne and pink grapefruit foam arrived and was dispensed from a chrome fire extinguisher. Very amusing, and lovely in the bouche as well. It kind of reminded me of a Campari based cocktail I had in St Louis at Christmas time. At this point my concerns about the general slap-dashedness of the front of house started to evaporate as I realised that everything I'd put into my mouth up until that point (and the food still hadn't arrived) had been either a new experience, or a superb one.
Both Mrs Jiffler and I opted for a pigeon terrine with griotte cherries to kick off with, which arrived in a generous serving, with a swish of light almost-another-foam sweet potato / carrotty puree thing, and a wedge shaped pigeon samosa poking from the top. The terrine itself was perfectly balanced and textured, with the silky sweet potato bringing a new context to the familiar flavours. On its own, the warm samosa was fine and deeply savoury, although a touch oily for my tastes. The only difficuly came if one was experimental enough (and lets face it, we've just eaten foam, so we're in the mood) to try a forkful of both the warm samosa and the cold terrine at once. We both agreed, its just wrong. Like drinking champagne with fish and chips.
More bread, and more scuttling about of waiters and our mains arrived. Mrs Jiffler was presented with a handsome fillet of sea bream, encrusted skin side with sesame seeds, accompanied by a few stir fried veg and another slick sweet potato/carrot swoosh. She seemed pleased to start off with (although I thought the reappearnace of the sweet potato jizz was a bit lazy), but, as she made her way through the dish, got tired of the overpowering sesame flavour - the veg had been stir fired in sesame oil, and the plate dressed with a drizzle of sesame oil.
I went trad, with a leg and breast of pot-roasted guinea-fowl, creamy leeks, eight (count 'em) peas, a cylindrical fondant potato, madeira gravy and mushroom puree. A posh Sunday roast if I'm honest. They did a better job of the guinea-fowl than I can usually manage, as it was beautifully smooth and succulent. I suspect the bird had been poached in stock before finishing in the oven. Accompanying savouries could have done with a little sweetness to liven things up a little, but were only let down by a laughable potato, which had the appearance, texture, and flavour of something from a McCains freezer bag.
The cheese trolley was ably and generously presented by the maitre d', who talked us gently through the whole board. As usual Mrs Jiffler chose the star players, while I went off-piste. She came up trumps with a perfectly kept creamy soft Surrey Brie, and a gentle not-really-a-blue which exploded sweetly on the tongue and made me extremely jealous. In typical fashion, I went for the stronger stuff on the board, and wasn't disappointed by the smelly Munster-like cheese from the Alsace, a chalky French goats cheese, reliable Barkham Blue, and a seriously strong, yet strangely more-ish Devonshire Blue.
As it was Easter we coughed up an extra fiver each for coffee and petits fours up in the upstairs bar, which at last afforded us a view of the Cam. Coffee wasn't amazing, probably bog standard Lavazza, but came with a clutch of delightful bottereaux (beignet, like donuts, but French and therefore posh) for dipping into creme Anglaise flavoured with Armagnac and a fruit compote that Mrs Jiffler and I are still arguing over. Then up popped skinny waiter number 47 with a wooden box filled with home-made chocolates. Of course Mrs Jiffler had been waiting all afternoon for this, and quickly selected an assortment, including bite size bells of white chocolate filled with green pepper and booze. I don't know why it worked, but it did.
All in, 95 quid for two. A bit much for lunch, and too much for lunch in the 'provinces'. we were both full as we rolled alongside the river Cam on our way in to town, and both of us had eaten some exceptional food, and tried something new and worthwhile. The London pricing needs to change though, as does the piss-taking mark-up on the wine list. Also, diners don't need to see the waiting staff snapping at each other, or the maitre d' dishing out bollockings to his underlings. The kitchen at Midsummer house, under chef Daniel Clifford, is turning out some hot stuff, but the front of house staff need pushing into the River Cam.
I have a guilty secret. The last few weeks in Kigali I've been sneaking furtive looks at restaurant websites. Food porn. Dreaming of where I could possibly casually arrange a serious lunch when I finally returned to the UK. As my tastebuds got more desperate the Michelin star count started rising. Pied a terre? or Tom Aikens maybe? Actually Chef Ramsay's three starrer in London has a lunch offer...
In the end I didn't end up passing through the capital, but spent some time in Cambridge, where Mrs Jiffler had some business for a couple of days. The only restaurant that I'd heard raved about in Cambridge is Midsummer House, a two starred effort overlooking the River Cam. Oh, and look at that - its just a five minute walk from our hotel.
Mrs Jiffler didn't take much persuading in any case, especially as it was me who was buying. Anyhow, we managed to procure a lunch sitting for two on Good Friday from the friendly, courteous, but disconcertingly anorexic looking maitre d'while strolling past on Thursday evening.
On arrival the following day we were greeted by the same anorexic chap of indiscernable Continental European origin. He showed us to our table in the middle of the airy conservatory restaurant. Not the best table in the house, but a few other diners had already arrived, and they had the manner of regular visitors. Bizarrely, views of the River Cam were shielded by a fence. Don't we want the proles looking at us as they walk their dogs?
Cue a shitload of mincing about from assorted waiters and skivvies, all of whom seem to be rake thin, of indistinguishable European origin (bearing in mind Mrs Jiffler and I speak 6 or 7 languages between us we can usually hazard an educated guess), and whose demeanour suggested that they all hated each other. Things seemed a little disorganised to say the least, until a new maitre d' (fitting the skinny profile as before) appeared shaking his head and muttering.
Nibbles consisted of gorgeously mild and nutty lucques olives, flattened cheese breadsticks and potato chips with a fragrant sweet balsamic foam dip. The wine-list arrived (before we'd ordered our food - hello?), and we managed to annoy Lurch, the sommelier by dodging it completely. Mrs Jiffler and I had post-lunch plans, and besides I objected to the serious mark-ups. We stuck with sparkling water at £5.50 (£5.50? Who exactly do they think they are?) - a bottle which encouraged Lurch to top up our glasses every 90 seconds, like we were in some sort of awkward post-communist restaurant where they're trying self conciously to offer 'classy' service.
Our orders were taken swiftly from the lunchtime menu, and we settled back to talking quietly and munching on some lovely sourdough bread with a manly crust. An amuse bouche of champagne and pink grapefruit foam arrived and was dispensed from a chrome fire extinguisher. Very amusing, and lovely in the bouche as well. It kind of reminded me of a Campari based cocktail I had in St Louis at Christmas time. At this point my concerns about the general slap-dashedness of the front of house started to evaporate as I realised that everything I'd put into my mouth up until that point (and the food still hadn't arrived) had been either a new experience, or a superb one.
Both Mrs Jiffler and I opted for a pigeon terrine with griotte cherries to kick off with, which arrived in a generous serving, with a swish of light almost-another-foam sweet potato / carrotty puree thing, and a wedge shaped pigeon samosa poking from the top. The terrine itself was perfectly balanced and textured, with the silky sweet potato bringing a new context to the familiar flavours. On its own, the warm samosa was fine and deeply savoury, although a touch oily for my tastes. The only difficuly came if one was experimental enough (and lets face it, we've just eaten foam, so we're in the mood) to try a forkful of both the warm samosa and the cold terrine at once. We both agreed, its just wrong. Like drinking champagne with fish and chips.
More bread, and more scuttling about of waiters and our mains arrived. Mrs Jiffler was presented with a handsome fillet of sea bream, encrusted skin side with sesame seeds, accompanied by a few stir fried veg and another slick sweet potato/carrot swoosh. She seemed pleased to start off with (although I thought the reappearnace of the sweet potato jizz was a bit lazy), but, as she made her way through the dish, got tired of the overpowering sesame flavour - the veg had been stir fired in sesame oil, and the plate dressed with a drizzle of sesame oil.
I went trad, with a leg and breast of pot-roasted guinea-fowl, creamy leeks, eight (count 'em) peas, a cylindrical fondant potato, madeira gravy and mushroom puree. A posh Sunday roast if I'm honest. They did a better job of the guinea-fowl than I can usually manage, as it was beautifully smooth and succulent. I suspect the bird had been poached in stock before finishing in the oven. Accompanying savouries could have done with a little sweetness to liven things up a little, but were only let down by a laughable potato, which had the appearance, texture, and flavour of something from a McCains freezer bag.
The cheese trolley was ably and generously presented by the maitre d', who talked us gently through the whole board. As usual Mrs Jiffler chose the star players, while I went off-piste. She came up trumps with a perfectly kept creamy soft Surrey Brie, and a gentle not-really-a-blue which exploded sweetly on the tongue and made me extremely jealous. In typical fashion, I went for the stronger stuff on the board, and wasn't disappointed by the smelly Munster-like cheese from the Alsace, a chalky French goats cheese, reliable Barkham Blue, and a seriously strong, yet strangely more-ish Devonshire Blue.
As it was Easter we coughed up an extra fiver each for coffee and petits fours up in the upstairs bar, which at last afforded us a view of the Cam. Coffee wasn't amazing, probably bog standard Lavazza, but came with a clutch of delightful bottereaux (beignet, like donuts, but French and therefore posh) for dipping into creme Anglaise flavoured with Armagnac and a fruit compote that Mrs Jiffler and I are still arguing over. Then up popped skinny waiter number 47 with a wooden box filled with home-made chocolates. Of course Mrs Jiffler had been waiting all afternoon for this, and quickly selected an assortment, including bite size bells of white chocolate filled with green pepper and booze. I don't know why it worked, but it did.
All in, 95 quid for two. A bit much for lunch, and too much for lunch in the 'provinces'. we were both full as we rolled alongside the river Cam on our way in to town, and both of us had eaten some exceptional food, and tried something new and worthwhile. The London pricing needs to change though, as does the piss-taking mark-up on the wine list. Also, diners don't need to see the waiting staff snapping at each other, or the maitre d' dishing out bollockings to his underlings. The kitchen at Midsummer house, under chef Daniel Clifford, is turning out some hot stuff, but the front of house staff need pushing into the River Cam.
