Pretty village, with windows proudly displaying Michelin and Alastair Sawday stickers, two starving out-of-towners wooed. Decor's pleasant enough, if a little bland, and the dining room's empty but it's early and the menu looks good: pea and mint risotto, lamb shoulder and sweetbreads, confit of duck. 'I've smuggled you some bread from the kitchen," the waitress - who's lovely, no complaints there - says. "We used to offer it for free but we don't any more." Hmm. Still, here comes the food. Uh-oh. A mass of sticky green starch, purporting to be risotto, minus the pea shoots - "We're out of those, sorry" - accompanied by some disconcertingly browning carrots and overcooked green beans. My lamb - at £15 - makes me want to cry. It's been inexplicably shredded, packed into a little pattie and comes with a grim underside of charcoal that definitely wasn't on the menu. Apparently this place, which seems so perfectly placed to deliver, has lost its chef. It certainly shows.
