Eating Owt: Merits of the Morritt

ONCE upon a time, a till was something which went "kerchang" when its buttons were properly depressed, flung open a mercenary money drawer and considered it a fair day's work. Now they only ring the changes.

Probably there are former polytechnics which do honours degrees in tills, with an MA for advanced tillage. The lass behind the bar at the Morritt Arms still seemed something of a fresher.

It certainly explains why service was a bit slow, may have been responsible for the missing chips and was clearly compliant in the case of the phantom gin and tonic on the bill.

Ownership of the G&T was finally claimed by an Irish commercial traveller with a voice like Dr Ian Paisley saying evensong, a mobile phone which played Scotland the Brave and an appointment at six o'clock next morning.

It should not be supposed, however, that all this amounts to computerised catastrophe. It was one of the most agreeable evenings, the most comforting and the most comfortable, in years.

It was last Wednesday, peevish and pouring down. Blow fine dining, gastro guff and haute potatoes, there are times - very many times, truth to tell - when all that's wanted is a convivial bar, a bright burning fire, a decent pint of ale and some proper pub food. The Morritt had them all in admirable abundance.

Long lauded, it's a former coaching inn alongside the A66 at Greta Bridge, near Barnard Castle, copies of the revamped Teesdale Mercury - 150 years old this year - lying around the Dickens bar and posters supporting the Countryside Alliance (they know their market) on the walls.

The Mercury had a newish column called Barney Liar, stirring memories of childhood trips to Blackpool where there was a newspaper called Billy's Weekly Liar and placards like "Ladder gang steals South Pier."

It seemed to go quite well, honestly.

The bistro, doubtless appealing on another night but warmed by no more temptingly naked flame than a row of votive candles on the mantlepiece, was almost empty. The restaurant was emptier than that.

The bar was clearly the place, the fire magnificent, the Dickensian murals wonderfully jolly, the housekeeping immaculate and the ale - Black Sheep, Jennings' Cumberland, Timothy Taylor's Landlord - in fine fettle.

There was also a mildly mendicant black bear (stuffed) and a jolly group of countrymen (animated) at the bar, their revels interrupted by the chap at the door who announced that it was 7.30 and the council meeting was starting.

It was actually 7.36. "Anyone want to go instead of me?" pleaded one of the forlorn members to no one in particular. None did.

We ordered at the bar, the lady writing the order with one of those pencils with a rubber on the end, which in the days when IT stood for inky trade, some of us considered to be quite a nifty gadget, an' all.

The meals were preceded, gratis and unannounced, by a bowl of plump olives and warm, home made bread.

The Boss wanted goats' cheese with fig chutney and fishcakes with parsley sauce and chips - remember the chips? They didn't - we ordered mushroom fritters with a Caesar dressing and parmesan shavings, followed by short crust (hallelujah) steak and kidney pie with very good "fat chips" and crisply cooked vegetables which included that relative rarity, asparagus.

Portions were hugely generous, flavours robust, service cheerful, two courses about £25. The bistro menu, more expensive, included both Teesdale lamb and beef and, for £10.25, a selection of two of the chef's favourite chocolate desserts.

Though puddings couldn't be contemplated - the cheese board looked particularly attractive - The Boss asked for a coffee and was in turn asked if she wanted cold milk, hot milk or cream. The till pasteurised the order before sending it to the kitchen.

Next day we rang Barbara Johnson, the owner, observed that but for the troublesome till, it had been an exceptionally convivial evening and got an interesting response.

"I hate the damn thing," said Barbara. "We've had it a year and it's been nothing but trouble. I think we're getting rid of it."

Whether the new one will go "kerchang" is, sadly, a matter of some doubt.

l The Morritt Arms, Greta Bridge, Barnard Castle (01833) 627232. Food 12-9pm, no problems for the disabled.

THE Teesdale Mercury also confirms the departure from the cul-de-sac Strathmore Arms at Holwick this week of the excellent Joe Cogdon and Helen Osborne. Darlington Drinker, the CAMRA newsletter, carries it with the neat headline "Strathmore qualms". They didn't want to go.

THE Morritt's rated in both the Good Pub Guide ("charming, pubby bar; civilised hotel") and the Which? Pub Guide ("splendidly rural Georgian coaching inn"). The 2005 editions have recently arrived.

The GPG - wholly admirable save for its persistently irritating insistence on subsuming poor, underfed County Durham into "Northumbria" - names the Keelman at Newburn, Newcastle, as its "own brew pub of the year", the County in Aycliffe Village as its "Northumbria" dining pub of the year and the Star at Harome, near Helmsley, as its Yorkshire dining pub.

The Which? Guide, no less independent and unbribed, lists the Oak Tree at Hutton Magna and the Lord Crewe Arms at Blanchland among its new entries and both the Star and the Blue Lion at East Witton, Wensleydale, among its top 30.

Both, particularly the GPG, are hugely useful. Both will be assiduously thumbed before the guide camp comes around once more.

* The Good Pub Guide 2005 (Ebury Press, £14 99); The Which? Pub Guide (Which? Books, £15 99).

LAST week's column was positively leonine. A lion guarded the new Singapore-themed restaurant at The Croft, near Darlington - "Singa Pura" means Lion City, Norman Hewitson helpfully points out - while another lay waiting in Sunderland Museum, where the bistro roared quite loudly, too.

The Sunderland lion was called Wallis, we said. It should have been Wallace and is the stuffed remains of a noble creature which padded round with Mander's Menagerie, a Victorian "wild beast show".

It was at Sunderland in 1868 that Wallace got really wild, mauling Martine Macome, his trainer. Though Macome pulled through, he'd have been better to avoid Wearside.

On his next visit, two years later, he died of a fever at the Palatine Hotel. The lion, though doubtless distraught, survived another five years and was bought by the museum in 1879 when in no position to argue.

Wallace, as several readers have kindly pointed out, was also the lion in the monologue made famous by Stanley Holloway.

There were one great big lion called Wallace

His nose were all covered in scars,

He lay in a somnolent posture

With the side of his face on the bars.

"You must remember Albert Ramsbottom, though I don't think he was from Shildon," writes David Halladay, mischievously. In Shildon we only had wolves.

STILL in Shildon, the column a couple of weeks back suggested that while the National Railway Museum annexe was a most welcome visitor attraction to the old town, the lack of somewhere decent to eat might have them on the first train out again.

The theme's echoed by Ray Price, from Chester-le-Street, who invited readers of local newspaper the Town Crier to offer suggestions.

"I threw out a challenge on how to obtain a decent cup of coffee in a non-smoky atmosphere, a healthy meal or anything other than a packet of crisps on a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday," says Ray.

"The only businessman who took up the challenge was a jeweller who complained it wasn't worth opening. Apathy is indeed the order of the day in Shildon."

THE week previously, a note on the Gisborough Hall Hotel noted the presence outside of a Coastguard vehicle and wondered what the emergency.

The Coastguards, signals Peter Sotheran in Redcar, were guest speakers at Guisborough and Great Ayton Rotary Club - "regaling the members, their ladies and guests with tales of the derring-do of the Skinningrove Cliff Rescue Team".

They dined on soup, stuffed chicken breasts and lemon cheese tart, followed by coffee, for the "princely" sum of £12 a head. Alfred Lister's thoughts on Gisborough Hall await another edition.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what's musical and holds 36 gallons of beer.

A barrel organ, of course.