Food writers are constantly in pursuit of the new: the up-and-coming chef, that buzzy new restaurant, the next trend that’s going to shake-up the industry.
But, occasionally, it pays to revisit a classic. And so on an icy winter’s day, I venture out to L’Enclume in Cumbria; one of the best restaurants in Britain, if not the world.
And yet from the outside you wouldn’t know it. Unlike some other vaunted rural restaurants, there are no roadside signs or awnings to beckon you in and the village of Cartmel, where L’Enclume is located, is sleepily quiet. I’m not sure I’ve even got the right place until I spot a small plaque on a wall outside; open the doors and L’Enclume’s front-of-house operation whirrs into action.
Just twenty minutes later — after coats have been taken, the nine-course menu chosen and glasses of wine ordered — our first dishes arrive from the open pass at the back of the dining room. And with them, the clearest reminder yet that that this is a special restaurant and we are in for a special meal.
The presentation is startling; tactile, theatrical and forward-thinking. A beetroot gel intricate styled to resemble a leaf adorns a white tablecloth; chicken liver mousse with a vibrant parsley coat begs to be scooped off a pebble; and a fermented beetroot drink (an Anglicised riff on kombucha, perhaps) is served in a tumbler on a board decorated with forest floor-like greenery. Young chefs take note: none of it feels gratuitous, rather a visual rendering of the earthy, bosky nature of the cuisine.
The plateware is perfectly on-point, too. Plump duck hearts, served on a pillowy Tunworth cheese foam, are framed by a handsome grey earthenware bowl, while a speckled off-white rimmed plate adds another dimension of texture to a challenging Jerusalem artichoke combination.
L’Enclume were one of the first restaurants in the UK to work directly with artisan potters and have clearly built up an enviable collection of unique plateware as a result.
Crucially, though, the chefs know when to go keep things simple. A slightly dimpled clean white plate makes a crisp canvas for butter-poached turbot. Later, aged duck is served on something similar, the sheen of the rich, gamey sauce given HD-clarity by the white porcelain. Desserts are challenging — sweet-tooths will find no fix here. Liquorice custard, which comes in a little ceramic yoghurt pot perched on a tray made from twigs, has a highly unusual flavour that I’m not sure if I love or loathe. Much more enjoyable is set sheep’s milk topped with an oxalis granita, which is layered into a high-sided bowl and scooped out using a dainty teaspoon with a wood handle.
Since opening in 2002, L’Enclume has changed our understanding of what British food is and can be. Simon Rogan’s style, which is all about reinventing forgotten British ingredients and preparing them naturally, has been incredibly influential and you will now find chefs working to a similar blueprint in rural restaurants across Britain.
But, then, I knew all that already.
What this pilgrimage has revealed more than anything, is that Rogan and his team know how to translate this terroir-focussed ethos into a dining experience that is seamless and meticulous from the moment you enter to the moment you leave. It’s not about the individual dishes, but of the accumulative impact of the tabletop, the staff and the farm outside.
Clearly, at Britain’s L’Enclume #TabletopMatters.
It’s a winning combination that keeps gastronomes like me coming back to L’Enclume again and again.
By Isaac Parham
