S o, off to north Wales to stay with my in-laws,
but this time I travel with some culinary hope in my heart. As you know, I've yet to find a decent eating-out experience in these parts. The Welsh just don't seem to be interested in good food, although I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's simply because they are too busy singing and blowing down wind instruments. However, just before we left home, I chanced upon a good-food guide, which highly recommended the Boat Inn at Erbistock, describing it as 'superbly situated' and with 'a kitchen that puts great store by good-quality local produce'. Worth a try, I think. What's the alternative. anyway? Mother pub promising 'home-made' food, which turns out to be lukewarm tinned tomato soup followed by a revolting rnicrowaved pie of some description? Sometimes the Welsh can't see the wood for singing and blowing down their wind instruments. On the other hand, they may simply be too busy ricocheting from one Eisteddfod to the next.
Anyway, I book the Boat Inn for a Sunday lunch, and go with my partner, our son, my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law. Alas, my father-in-law isn't feeling too good, so stays behind with my brother-in-law and his newborn baby daughter. My son has to be bribed to come with us, because he's besotted with his new cousin, has pretty much become her nursemaid, plus, being half-Welsh himself, has turned her into something of a wind instrument. Indeed, he has transformed winding her — which, in his case, means thumping her on the back with a vigour that makes my sister-in-law wince — into a fiercely competitive sport. At one point, I was in the lead, having a achieved three burps and two farts, but just that morning he overtook me with three burps, four farts and a sneeze. I'm minded to insist on a drugs test.
The Boat Inn is, indeed, beautifully situated, right on the River Dee. It's been converted from two 16th-century ferryman's cottages, arid inside it is just as delightful — at least initially: log fire roaring in the old kitchen range, low-beamed bar, stone flags. The bar offers good beer (Old Hookey, plus a special local ale made from plums) and good wine served in proper balloon glasses. A middle-aged foursome are already well settled in here, with one couple telling the other that they saw Joe Pasquale perform in Northampton not once but twice 'because he was that good, wasn't he, Sue?' Before Sue can re-enact the highlights — I can tell by the determined look in her eye that she is about to — we hop it to the lounge, where there is another roaring fire, lots of angling pictures
and big squishy sofas, one of which is occupied by a couple (late fifties, I guess). He is tall and angular and balding and looks like my old geography teacher, Mr 'Wally' Wallin. She is rather over-made-up, rather mutton dressed as lamb, and possibly not free-range or organic at that. As it turns out, this is their first meeting through a dating agency. I know this because he talks in a very loud voice. 'One woman sent me a photograph that turned out to have been taken 20 years earlier. Is that fair?' Into the restaurant where, hurrah, Mr Wallin and his date are given the table next to us.
My sister-in-law and I are pleased because by now we are gripped as to how it is going to turn out. 'I'm considered quite a catch because I don't have a pot belly like most men my age. . 'Yes, but you also have no hair and are an ugly old prat. 'I go to the gym at least three times a week. . . 'My partner says, 'Why don't you simply draw your chairs up to their table?' 'Last week I was introduced to a woman who said she went to the gym, but obviously didn't. . . 'We do not have to draw our chairs up to their table, as he is an extremely loud bore, 'I've worked hard for my home, a converted barn, very tastefully done with three ales.. . I think that if I were his date and had a wind instrument about my person, I would do him in with it.
The restaurant is not part of the original building. It's an extension and a rather unsympathetic one at that. Light and airy, true, but in the conservatory style, with wicker chairs and marble-topped tables and all that. Still, the view of the fast-flowing river is beautiful, and the waitresses — young local girls — are most charming and attentive. 'Is evelything all right for you?' they keep asking, while standing to attention at the table. Yes, but could you bugger off now, please? We are trying to keep up with the conversation at the next table. 'I think everyone should be forced to provide a current photograph. . . 'Meanwhile, gales of hilarity from Sue's table. That Joe Pasquale. He's a one.
To the menu. As it's Sunday lunch, it's a set job: £12.95 for two courses, £16.95 for three (including coffee). I start with the roast pumpkin soup with toasted pine nuts, which is, it must said, deliciously smooth and rich but could have been hotter. My partner thinks his smoked-fish salad with asparagus and a sour cream and chive dressing a great disappointment. The dressing is barely there, the asparagus simply isn't there (lots of frilly lettuce instead) and the smoked fish is basically a bit of smoked salmon and a bit of smoked mackerel. However, my sister-in-law declares her chicken liver pate' with fruit chutney divine, while Mr Wallin gave us his thoughts on speed dating. 'I've tried it, but some women just don't look after themselves, do they?'
Next, I go for the poached salmon with a woodland-mushroom cream sauce. What was I thinking of? It tastes and looks like salmon with a tin of Campbell's condensed soup tipped over it. (Plus, I'm guessing it's farmed, which means that now I'm going to glow in the dark before dying of cancer.) The others do much better. My mother-in-law's roast pork with red cabbage and sage-cream sauce proves the best — beautifully tender pork —while the roast Welsh black nbeye of beef with Yorkshire pudding, as chosen by the others, is perfectly acceptable — the meat is obviously good quality — but rather overcooked. However, the vegetables — carrots, baby corn, green beans — have excellent bite, although my mother-in-law, who puts on the brussels sprouts for Christmas lunch in October, declares them 'rather underdone'.
Alas, no time for puddings — Erbistock farmhouse ice-cream, Jaffa cake pudding, regional cheeses — as the boys are due at the football: Wrexham vs Blackpool, 3 p.m. As for us girls, we have to get back for some serious winding practice. If the Boat Inn were in London, I think it would be a perfectly average gastropub, but here, in Wales, it does stand out as better than most establishments, which isn't saying much, I know. I think it's worth trying in the evening, though, as the a la carte menu does look substantially more adventurous. Meanwhile, I've no idea if Mr Wallin got his shag, but I doubt it. As we left, the look on his date's face was desperate, but not that desperate. I bet she wished she'd stayed at home, blowing down a big wind instrument rather than listening to one.
The Boat Inn, Erbistock, Wrexham, LL13 ODL. Tel: 01978 780666.
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