They say that you know you’re getting older when policemen start looking younger. Well, if you can’t find a policeman (and of course you never can when you want one), look for a chef. The effect is even worse with chefs, because they’re invariably even younger than the policemen. Chefs need youth on their side: all those early mornings, standing all day, and all that chopping and stirring take a lot of energy. (To be fair, policemen need to be young, too, so they have enough energy for all that form-filling and sitting in cars waiting to nick you for speeding.)
I’m musing on the subject of age because it’s now almost exactly 30 years since I started in the kitchen; that’s three decades since the boy White turned up for work at the Hotel St George in Harrogate and got a start peeling vegetables. Imagine – the urchin MPW, grubby fingers, blackened feet, tugging at the head chef’s apron strings, pleading to be allowed in to scrub potatoes.
The locals, from serious landowners to handymen, are all united and equal under the roof of the tavern
Much has changed since then, of course. As I think back on those early days, in spite of the flourishing food culture this country has seen since the late 1970s, I yearn for the food I used to help prepare, for the old-fashioned service and the culinary simplicity of that era. And that is why I’m visiting The Welldiggers Arms in Petworth this month.
The food here is cooked and served just as it was at the St George. The reason for that is the establishment’s mainstay, Ted Whitcomb. He’s been the landlord, as far as I can tell, since they invented the pint, and he reminds me of Harry Cipriani in Venice. Harry was the son of Giuseppe Cipriani, and the founder of that legendary Venetian institution, Harry’s Bar. Immaculately dressed, he would station himself by the door in the early evening and eat dinner. Ted does just the same and, like Harry, he cleans his plate, thus affirming his respect for the kitchen. The message is clear: ‘if it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for everybody’.
And, as the ringmaster of this particular arena, he has the attention of all his locals, who range from serious landowners to handymen, all united and equal beneath the roof of the tavern. They come together here for two reasons: Ted’s conversation and his food. I’m sure it’s the latter you want to hear about, so I got started with some oysters and delicious oak-smoked kippers before Ted presented me with the steak I was thinking of having – uncooked. We did just the same at the St George: the customer would inspect the meat, say how thick they’d like it and, in due course, pay accordingly.
As I waited for the steak to be cooked, I decided to fit in a small course of roast crispy duck with sage stuffing and apple sauce. The Welldiggers got it exactly right: the apples weren’t overcooked, and just the right amount of sugar was used. It’s easy to oversweeten. My steak, when it came, was wonderfully succulent, and I helped it down with a generous spoonful from the pot of English mustard Ted puts on each table.
For pudding I had the lemon tart which – if I may say so myself – was as good as I could make. Or almost as good – personally, I’d prefer a dollop more curd in proportion to the pastry.
As I wolfed down my food with a perfectly pulled pint of Young’s, I chatted to Ted, who, as ever, was entertaining his punters. They all come here for him, as opposed to frills or free drinks. As Ted says: "The only thing you’ll get on the house here is a roof."
Mr Ishii says...
“I tried to look around to give my opinion of the decor and atmosphere,” says MPW’s special assistant, “but my eyes were drawn to the large sack that hangs above the door. As Ted looks like Father Christmas, I ask if it is full of toys. People look at me in an odd way and tell me it’s a dried bull’s testicle.”