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Andrew Kay finds that things are buzzing at La Galleria in Shoreham-by-Sea

On a dismally cold January evening the drive through Hove towards Shoreham was less than inspiring. The post Christmas blues had set in, the wind was icy and every restaurant we passed on the way was desolate. It was culinary tumbleweed season.

Shoreham still twinkled with lights as we arrived and we parked easily before making our way against the chill breeze to La Galleria. I expected to find the same desolation but I was wrong. In Hove, all were safely gathered in, in Shoreham it was still party season and the place was buzzing.

We were found a table in a corner, my favourite kind with good views of the whole room, and before long we had menus and soft drinks. Yes soft drinks, both Kevin my guest and I were doing that no booze in Jan routine. Ha ha, I hear you laugh, how long will that last? – and you’re right. Only the next night I drowned my sorrows in a can of beer and two bottles of Cherry B that Santa left in my stocking – lord only knows where he found them.

‘‘My platter of salamis and meats with punchy pickles hit exactly the right spot. I was in fighting mood and a carnivorous treat fitted the bill perfectly’’

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Andrew Kay discovers that he may be a pheasant plucker at The New Inn in Hurstpierpoint

I have always loved the notion of dining on road kill. Notoriously there is a US diner with the motto ‘Straight From your Grill to Ours’. Many years ago I spent an idyllic evening at the home of Eric Newby and his wonderful wife Vanda. Vanda, a women of some years, had prepared a casserole for dinner made of something she had knocked down a few weeks before and dragged into the boot of her car. It was delicious. After the main course she asked if we would like a salad, we all nodded and before we knew it she had donned wellingtons and an overcoat and headed off into the snow covered garden. She returned, rosy cheeked, with an armful of what some would describe as weeds which she then washed, tossed and dressed with excellent oil and vinegar. Later we had home made chocolate ice-cream. It was a memorable evening in the company of one literary great and one culinary one.

Game of course is reasonably easy to come by in Sussex and pheasants have that kamikaze instinct too, wandering in front of the Skoda with gay abandon. Several did this as I motored out to Hurstpierpoint and The New Inn.

‘‘Game is reasonably easy to come by in Sussex, pheasants have that kamikaze instinct, wandering in front of the Skoda with abandon’’

The New Inn is refreshingly old, restored yes, but with a delicate hand. The look is a bit ‘Farrow & Ball’ but it seems appropriate. It was a chilly day and inside the wood fire was throwing out loads of heat and also that inimitable smell. We lost that for years under the fug of tobacco but now it’s back – hoorah!

I wasted no time in ordering a pint of Harvey’s shandy, I would have loved a pint of pure ale but common sense tells me to keep to the shandy, especially at lunchtime. I placed my food order at the bar and found a dark corner in which to hide.

Now I am a great lover of eating alone. I am happy with my own company, and especially if I have good food to indulge in.

Before long I had a deep bowl of vermillion hued tomato and basil soup with chickpeas. It was rather good and piping hot with just enough pulses lurking in the depths to make it a substantial dish but not too many to spoil me for my main course.

For main I chose pheasant, not because I love pheasant, in fact I don’t much like it. It’s like this; too many times have I been served vile pheasant stew made by smart Chelsea totty, daughter of, or married to, weekend-gun-toting man. How they can manage to make wet stew with breast meat as dry as a witches mammary beggars belief, but believe me they can – almost to a matron. It’s inevitably mined with lead shot too.

Quite often I fail to get to dessert but on this occasion I did and very glad I am too. Panacotta needs trying. It needs to waver between a jelly and a junket. It needs to be delicate, bordering on bland and it doesn’t need messing with. This did the job, wibbled politely, enjoyed its dressing of sweet berries and slipped down a treat. A biscuit on the side took me back to childhood memories of melting moments, crisp rice flour biscuits made by my mum. Ahh, soppy old fool I hear you say.

To say that the New Inn performed well would be understatement but to say more would belittle the fact that this place seems to be set on serving good but delightfully understated food. There’s little pretence, both in the cooking and the charming service – and the prices are earthly rather than astronomical. I managed to park easily too, that was heavenly.

The New Inn, 74-76 High Street, Hurstpierpoint, West Sussex, 01273 834608

Andrew Kay, in shame, finally makes his way to The Griffin Inn in Fletching

As I write this, the first and last pubs that I legally drank in were both called The Griffin Inn. The first was when I was 18 – it was my birthday and before my party (fancy dress of course). I went to the pub for the first legal time, the local where my Aunty Marie, who had a glass eye, was a barmaid. I caused a stir for two reasons, the first for announcing it was my 18th birthday when I had been drinking in there for some time, and the second because I was dressed as Shirley Temple. Don’t ask.

On Saturday I was far more conventionally dressed when I called Mr L and invited him to spend a day in the country. ‘‘Ditch the Prada,’’ I said, “and I’ll lend you a pair of wellies.” He did his best but still looked pretty smart where as I look liked more like Shirley Crabtree these days than Temple. We took the dog for a long and very muddy walk, bought eggs at the roadside and looked at antiques before pulling into the carpark at the Griffin in Fletching.

‘‘I think that I thought that Fletching was miles away from where I live, but it’s only a stone’s throw, and a stone well worth throwing’’

I am ashamed to say that in nearly 12 years of writing local food columns I have only just madeit to the Griffin, despite it being so famously good. I have popped in for a Bloody Mary before but never to dine. We nipped into the Ditchling Food Company first and bought a few Scotch eggs and some excellent Wensleydale cheese, which gave me a Wallace and Gromit moment – although which of us was which is hard to tell.

Back at the Griffin we went to the bar, ordered Bloody Marys and settled down to read a huge blackboard menu in front of a roaring fire. Mr L had been before and was known, so he asked if there was any chance of a table in the dining room and luckily his influence worked. Before long we were sat at a large round table with some excellent homemade foccacia and rich olive oil.

The dining room sells the same food as the bar but without the lowerpriced pubby dishes. It was an easy choice for me to start – razor clams. How often do you see them on a menu? I eat them in Spain where they tend to do that Spanish thing of slowly braising them in a tomato and garlic sauce. Here they had steamed them with chilli and garlic with parsley. God they were good, sweet and meaty, and filling too. Lay three side by side and they are about the size of a steak; four would be too many. I called for a spoon as the broth was too good to waste. Mr L had scallops with a chorizo and coriander relish and caramelised lime. It was gone before I could
click the camera. I did get a taste and they were great, really sweet and perfectly, but barely, cooked.

Mr L followed with Ashdown Forest venison loin with rosti, roast shallots with a juniper jus. The venison was amazing, dark and musky, meltingly tender and full of flavour. The shallots, big banana ones, glistened and were the perfect side of burnt as they should be. The rosti we both thought was a bit too crisp, then revised our thought as the texture added an air of game chips to the dish. The jus was sticky and held the whole together.

I chose rump of Romney Marsh lamb with roast squash, Swiss chard and a lentil jus. What a dish – more than generous in size with thick slices of pink lamb that the chef had taken to the very edge of rareness to achieve a wonderful crisp skin and fine layer of sweet fat. The fat and skin on good lamb is sublime and I found myself saving it till last. The roast squash was creamy and sweet, and the chard perfect, bitter in contrast. My jus, different from Mr L’s, was also sticky but dotted with Puy lentils. I really didn’t want it to end but that was all I could manage.

Mr L, however, finished with a lemon polenta cake with lemon syrup and marscapone, a good slice with a nice puddle of sauce strewn with candied lemon zest and topped with the cheese. I was too full to even try.

We had a glass of red each, a light house wine that did the job, and a bottle of still water. The bill came to about £30 each which, while hardly being cheap, was to my mind incredibly good value. Prime ingredients, mainly local, were treated with care and pride. A kitchen that can roast meats this precisely is to be applauded. I am so tired of roast meats that taste simply of burnt roasting tin.

You can stay at the Griffin, too, with rooms starting at £80 Sunday to Thursday and some topping out at £130 at the weekend, but all including breakfast, which if lunch is anything to go by promises to be excellent. I think that I thought that Fletching was miles away from where I live but it’s only a stone’s throw, and a stone well worth throwing.

The Griffin Inn, Fletching, Near Uckfield. Call 01825 722890 or www.thegriffininn.co.uk

Andrew Kay goes to The Bull in Ditchling for a spot of lunch

It was a hot Friday and I had spent more than enough time sitting in traffic trying to get to the South Of England Show at Ardingly. It was a launch pad for the Sussex Food Awards, an initiative that I wholeheartedly support and one that I urge you all to get behind too. It’s only by talking about and supporting local food producers and retailers that we can, collectively, start to change the way people shop for food. The show itself is not really my cup of tea. I am filled with respect for the livestock producers who form its core, I just cannot get that excited about pig pens and the like.

I am even less inspired by the myriad stalls that sell the sort of products that fill me with despair. You know the stuff: clever slicers, magnetic window cleaning devices and electronic gadgets made by companies whose name I have never heard. All this dotted amongst an almost alarming number of stalls selling green wellies, raincoats, hats, brogues, walking sticks and the sundry accompaniments to a ‘genuine’ country existence.

I did spend a very nice half hour in the Taste Of Sussex marquee, where many of my favourite local producers had once again gathered to offer their wares. Coco Loco gave me some chili chocolate of such fire that I still carry the scars. That’s not to say that I didn’t like it, just that it should – and in fact, on close inspection, does – carry a health warning!

After that, I made my escape and not before time as by 1pm I had been feasted on by mozzies. I slowly made my way through the vast rural car park that is the South Of England Showground and back to Ditchling, where I decided a spot of lunch was in order. I parked, applied the antihistamine cream and headed for The Bull.

"’’These peas were fat, sweet and succulent - fresh as the moment when the pod went pop, as we used to say"

I like The Bull because it still looks like a pub and I had an inkling that they did fish and chips of a Friday. I was right. I planted myself on a bar stool and while I waited to order, started the quick Guardian crossword. It’s a bad habit, but one that I cannot kick.

Before too long, I had a pint of Harvey’s shandy and pretty soon a plate of fat chips, crisply battered cod, above average tartare sauce and excellent peas. I guess they were frozen, but if they are good enough for Heston Blumenthal then they are good enough for anyone. That said, they so often disappoint, starchy and dry. These were fat, sweet and succulent – fresh as the moment when the pod went pop, as we used to say. It cost about £10 but was worth it, as the fish was creamy and fresh and the batter, made with Harvey’s bitter I believe, formed a perfect crisp and encapsulating crust.

Now I know that I always say Bardsley’s in Brighton is best, and I still think it is, but this was pretty damned good. The service was nice too, as was the presentation, and I was left in peace to read.

As I prepared to leave, a young mother arrived with her child. She asked if she could order some food and the girl at the bar replied that the kitchen was about to close but that she would ask the chef. Now, it was a piping hot day and the kitchen had just finished a busy lunch service so at 2.30 they would have been perfectly entitled to say that the kitchen was closed. But she returned to say that they would stay open and prepare a lunch for her. And for that I give them top marks.

The Bull, 2 High Street, Ditchling, West Sussex, 01273 843147