Dining out in splendid isolation

If it is simply a matter of being economical, as was famously supposed of Mr Richard Milhous Nixon, then ours are the economics of the bad house.

Usually these flimsy little fabrications - "So sorry, I've something else on that night" - are manufactured in order to avoid a restaurant opening or almost any other social occasion on which more than two or three are gathered together.

A philosopher would quote M. Sartre, who believed that hell was other people, or Mr Milton Friedman who decreed that there was no such thing as a free dinner. A realist (or a journalist) would simply side with Ms Garbo, who wanted to be alone.

It was for those reasons - those and the pig-ignorant proliferation of initial capitals in the accompanying letter - that we declined the invitation eight weeks ago to attend the opening of the Monboucher Restaurant ("a New Dining Experience") at Beamish Hall.

Under the usual misleading name - this column may be considered less than perpendicular - we booked last Wednesday evening instead, and really were left to get on with it.

Beamish Hall is near the regional open air museum in north-west Durham, home to the region's gentry - the Percys, Edens and Shaftos - before becoming Coal Board offices after the war, thereafter an adult education centre and hoard of the museum's archives and, for several years, empty.

The Monbouchers had owned the Beamish estates in the 14th Century. We had assumed it to be French for "fine dining", or some such clich of contemporary cuisine, but like almost every other preconception about Beamish Hall, it proved utterly mistaken.

The hall is huge, work on its conversion into hotel and conference centre gradually ongoing. A sympathetic sign on the approach road warns to "Beware of visitors", though last Wednesday night there was no one whatever to worry about.

The first surprise was that the front door was locked, a bell inviting attention. A waitress, one of the stars of the show, appeared forthwith and showed us into a large reception area, signs on one wall still indicating grey dormitories and brown dormitories and other portents of an earlier to bed existence.

Though opulent enough, it seemed somehow unfinished, the emaciated newspaper rack containing nothing more legible than five copies of The Mirror magazine, the china cabinets as empty and echoing as Middlesbrough FC's trophy room.

There was also a marked absence of coffee tables. Those there were, it was possible to suppose, had been nailed to the floor for security reasons.

Mary, the waitress, brought a few complimentary and tasty nibbles, took the order, summoned Mark the barman - glass of house red, pint of Theakston's - and led us finally to the restaurant.

It is a spacious and elegant room overlooking the deer park, with large marble topped tables and sundry statues. Our window seats were guarded by two muscular but scantily clad bronzes with their arms behind their heads.

They resembled Mr Patrick Vieira taking a throw-in, save that the Adonis of Arsenal usually reserves the loin cloth for the showers.

There were also huge vases, of the sort in which Ali Baba and his thieves could not only have hidden but concealed the bairns, the mother-in-law and a picnic hamper as well.

Though another couple rang the bell, they seemed quickly to disappear, as if engaged in a sort of stately knocky-nine-doors. Mark and Mary plus three in the kitchen seemed just about to say it all.

"It tends to be a bit quiet midweek," they concluded.

"Great," we replied ungraciously, two minds (like Laurel and Hardy) with but a single thought.

The Boss began with a smoked salmon and prawn roulade with lemon and dill blinis - "really interesting, delicious," she said - we had a cold duck concoction with a pickled beetroot compote and a julienne (oh, come on) of salad. It was very good.

Among the other ill-formed preconceptions were that it would be absurdly expensive or ludicrously lah-di-dah. Since there wasn't much else for them to do than play chucks out the back, the staff were becoming informally, agreeably, friendly.

In another generation Mary might have been called homely, a canny body, and in this one it should suggest nothing but high praise. Mark, younger and anxious to please, conducted the guided tour.

Though head chef Tony O'Neill plans more ambitious things, his dinner menu remains sensibly restrained. Main courses included baked Scotttish salmon with a pine nut crust and vegetable beurre blanc, rack of lamb with rosemary and garlic, seared calves liver with bubble and squeak.

Nor are inferior ingredients disguised by damn fool nancifications - as we restaurant critics like to say. It is not to imply that the presentation was anything other than professional, rather that - like the staff - there are no silly airs and graces at Beamish Hall.

The Boss followed with a seafood ravioli served on fish chowder - "jolly good, but not in the same league as the starter" - we with a leek and wild mushroom pudding. A puddin', said Mary, as well a Leadgate lass might.

It was excellent, proper, crusty hairs-on-your-chest, suet pudding though the accompanying "Bavarian smoked cheese sauce" was (as they may also say in Leadgate) nowt ower.

The vegetables, particularly a lightly battered cauliflower, were entirely acceptable.

Mark and Mary pointed out the deer at a distance, though not even they were joining the party.

The puddings were terrific - the best ever cheesecake, The Boss thought, and a richly flavoured "iced fudge nougatine served in a crisp Tuille basket with a caramel sauce" which fulfilled just about every requisite, save a jug of hot custard, of a great dessert.

We hung about until it was dark, just talking, wondering, hoping that it takes off. Whatever the grand design, the interim achievement made for a memorable evening. Splendid isolation, honest.

Monboucher Restaurant at Beamish Hall, between Chester-le-Street and Stanley (01207 233733.) Table d'hote dinner £14 95, carte £17-£20 for three courses. Toilets upstairs.

AN e-mail announces a new "back to basics" at O'Neill's in Durham - burgers, baguettes, even Tex-Mex. Save for the colcannon with the full English breakfast, in other words, the Irish has been repatriated.

A MINCE and dumplings war may be simmering in Bishop Auckland. At the smart new Four Clocks Centre they're £2.75, at Pearl's Place - 50 yards up Newgate Street - £1.50.

The Four Clocks was formerly the Wesleyan church, opened in 1914. We were last there for the 1965 passing out parade - leavers' service, they called it - at King James I Grammar School and thereafter, blazer badge brazzend, to the bar of the Wear Valley.

Run in those days by a gentleman known as the Major, the Wear Valley was just about the smartest venue in town. Now it needs knocking down before it falls down.

The Four Clocks is vaguely municipal, with mysterious things like a community capacity project, but there's also a community caf where a chicken dinner is £2.95 and catering's by students from the Tech.

Since there wasn't a free table, however, we pushed off to Pearl's Place and discovered the mince and dumplings long gone. "You have to be early to get those," said the cheery assistant.

It was 12.20pm. Perhaps Bishop has mince and dumplings with its All Bran.

Once it was the Caf Gloria (sic transit, Gloria) much loved on pay days by the Bishop Auckland press pack who'd have double chips after a good week on the expenses.

All that seems to have changed in the upstairs restaurant is that they no longer have those little plastic tomatoes from which ketchup was so reluctantly and rebelliously cajoled.

Though the fish and chips were very good - mushy peas the world's most overrated accompaniment - we also dined alone in the upper room. It was £3.50 including bread and butter and Coke.

The Four Clocks? Some other time, maybe.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you get by crossing a nun with a chicken.

A pecking order, of course.

Published: 28/05/2002