Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire is heroically lovely, but it does have about it a heavy whiff of the Hot Fuzz. It’s a market town with a nearby model village, while the “best things to do” section on TripAdvisor highlights the cemetery or a trip to the former residence of writer GK Chesterton. If all that fails to thrill, you could just go for lunch at the pub – although be aware that the Greyhound isn’t anything as simple as a plain old gastropub. Heck no, that would be something completely different: more shabbily chic, more carbohydrates on the menu, fewer staff calling you “Madam” while you’re en route to the loo and not even a hint of white peach granita on your burrata starter.
Rather, this is a charming, pale-fronted pub in a grade II 17th-century former coaching inn that also boasts a decidedly fancy and swanky restaurant that steers well away from muddy wellies and sticky toffee pudding, and instead pitches its tent in the land of wood pigeon with white beetroot and lavender, Norfolk chicken pressé with pickled girolles and sweetcorn, and ajo blanco with grapes, cantaloupe melon and nasturtium. And, to be fair, it might well not be for everyone. Gourmands, birthday treats and special occasions, perhaps, but picky children and Aunty Pam who just wants toad-in-the-hole might find the semi-formality a bit testing.
Over at the Ritz in London, I note that they call this style of dining “an epicurean journey”, which is, I feel, modern shorthand for small yet significant portions of largely French-influenced gastronomy heaving with finesse, technique and accomplishment. Whether or not epicurean journeys are delicious is a moot point, however, because we are here to gasp spellbound at the chef’s imagination and to nod sagely as a surprise amuse-bouche of fresh peas and lovage is delivered in a teeny ramekin with an equally ickle spoon. That’s followed by an equally precise and inoffensive minuscule tartlet of fresh sweetcorn and whipped cream cheese.
Decor-wise, and despite its L’Enclume vibes, the Greyhound hasn’t gone fully stripped back with stone floors and crofter’s cottage chic, as so many other highfalutin country pubs have done, and prefers instead to complement its olde-worlde low beams and wooden floors with warm, cinnamon-coloured leather horseshoe banquettes, patterned wallpaper, bottle-green velour cocktail chairs and modern art on every wall. This may be an oligarch’s saloon bar teetering on the edge of chintz, but it’s still hugely cosy and welcoming. Daytrippers lured this way by the model village could not help but be seduced by its sheer quaintness.
We ordered from the à la carte, rather than the six-plus course, £110-a-head tasting menu, and began with a pleasant bowl of La Latteria burrata in a green nasturtium pesto and topped with a sweet, peachy granita. Hereford rump cap tartare looked like something out of a fairytale, and was served very roughly chopped and arranged like a bird’s nest around a miso confit egg, pickled shimeji mushrooms and some capers. A main of roast sea bass had a gorgeously crisp skin and came with a silky spin on beurre blanc and some rather al dente braised baby fennel. Another main of wood pigeon erred on the side of well done and was submerged in a rich cherry jus that resembled nothing so much as a crime scene.
There’s some clever, cogent cooking going on at the Greyhound, with some hits, some misses, but an overall sense that, in a bid to be the best restaurant for miles around, they might just be missing the chance to be simply delicious. Still, diners all around us, celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, were having a lovely time of it, and the restaurant was ticking over very nicely, thank you, especially for a Tuesday evening.
It was only in the dessert list where a mood of pure decadence was allowed to let rip and flourish, because here we had îles flottantes with limoncello custard and raspberry souffle with sarsaparilla sorbet. Beforehand, we had foxtrotted neatly and nimbly around the world of fine dining, but thank God we were now in the sugary and comparatively silly ante-room. We opted for the heavenly sounding blackcurrant tart, which turned out to be a fat, chunky, individual tart with a crisp, buttery casing loaded with berries and clotted cream, all infused with the sharp kick of lemon verbena to break through all the lactose richness; best of all, it was topped by a glorious blackcurrant sorbet. Now we were talking.
On the tasting menu, I noticed that they serve Yoredale Wensleydale with homebaked fig loaf and chutneys, which sounds equally rustic and exquisite. If only the Greyhound did more fig loaf and less forlock-tugging, I might well be back for more.
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The Greyhound 33 Windsor End, Beaconsfield Buckinghamshire, 01494 671315. Open Tues-Sat, lunch noon-1.30pm (2pm Fri & Sat), dinner 6.30-8.30pm (last orders). From about £70 a head à la carte; set lunch £40 for two courses, £49 for three; six-course tasting menu £110 (£95 vegetarian or vegan), all plus drinks and service
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The next episode of Grace’s Comfort Eating podcast is out on Tuesday 5 August – listen to it here.
