Eating Out, Marco Peirre White - The Mason Arms

I have never understood the gastropub concept. That’s not to say that I can’t work out what it means. I appreciate that gastro is short for gastronomy so what it describes is pub gastronomy. But can you really ever get that? And why would I want to go to a pub to have gastronomy? Isn’t that what you visit a certain type of restaurant for? If I go to a pub it’s because I want a beer and need feeding – if indeed I’m in a pub that serves food at all. Would you walk into a Michelin-starred restaurant and ask for a pint and a packet of pork scratchings?

Of course many pubs these days do far more for their punters than pubs of old. They serve food – some serve excellent food. And I reckon that some pubs, while they might still call themselves pubs, have actually morphed into restaurants – they just might not know it. These are the places that serve food, and probably sell more wine than beer. So what, you may ask, should they be called? I like to give these establishments the term ‘restaurants that serve a pint’, or even call them ‘eating and drinking houses’.

I reckon that some pubs, while they might still call themselves pubs, have actually morphed into restaurants

So that sorts that out. Anyway, you get the idea that these things exercise me. I was thinking about all this recently when I visited The Mason Arms, hidden away down a lane in South Leigh, near Oxford. It’s a proper place. They regard the smoking ban as heinous and don’t have a website. Children and vegetarians aren’t welcome and nor are mobile phones or dogs. It’s all very post-war in feeling and spirit.

As for the food and drink, I started with a Bloody Mary, which was extraordinarily good – tomatoey, peppery and spicy in all the right places. Then I looked at the menu. It gets written up each day and really reflects the place’s individuality – there are no prices, for instance. And the duck dish, for example, just read: ‘Duck with apple sauce, crispy skin, bones removed.’ I waded in and ordered a plate of pata negra ham, which comes from a farm near Seville. It was beautifully carved and magnificently tender – and I could say the same about the plate of wild smoked salmon I ordered. I had a shrimp cocktail and then the duck, which was as juicy as the skin was crispy (the menu didn’t lie). All of which left room for a sirloin steak and some pudding. The steak had obviously been well hung, and then superbly cooked – it came at just the pinkness I’d asked for, and was wonderfully juicy too.

The food has all the cocksure confidence of the owner Gerry Stonhill, and almost as much attitude. I always say a great restaurant is an extension of the main man’s persona. So if I told you that Gerry is a real individual – cheerful, outrageous, uplifting and passionate – you might learn something more about his pub.

I finished with ice cream and asked for the bill. The latter I would compare to an enjoyable mugging. Like his food, Gerry’s bills are a form of high art; and high art comes at a high price. This is surely the most expensive pub in Britain. But it would be vulgar of me to go on about it. If you need to ask the price of a big yacht, you can’t afford it.

I wouldn’t pretend that The Mason Arms is perfect in each and every part. But taken together, the food, Gerry’s cardigan and the old-fashioned spirit and feel of the place make it my favourite pub in Britain. Take your 70-year-old mother or granny there. If you don’t get it, she will.