The design of Moor Hall felt like a collection of our favourite restaurants. The walk from the carpark to the restaurant through the immaculately turned-out garden lined with vegetables and herbs and flowers could easily have been the vast grounds behind The Wild Rabbit. Inside, the large polished kitchen and dining room make use of glass walls to connect it to its environment in the same way that Azurmendi do, whilst the view has a similar serenity to that found in the middle-of-bloody-nowhere at Ynyshir. It’s like they sat down with a blank page and asked what it would take to make the perfect experience, probably laughed at all of the zeros on the page, and then done it anyway. And there is nothing wrong with that.
In fact there is nothing wrong with any of Moor Hall. On the contrary; it is a restaurant defined by a high level of consistency that may explain the two Michelin stars in the three years it has been open, along with its present ranking of numero uno in Restaurant magazine. Every step, from the email asking us to arrive early, to the first courses in the bar, to the tour of the kitchen where the third course was served, lunch, and the small matter of a cheese room (yes, you have read that correctly), felt tightly orchestrated. A lot of thought has gone into every process, but then you would expect this from a Roux scholar who did a stint at Cellar Del Can Roca in between his tenures as head chef at L’Enclume.
We start with charcuterie in the bar, made in-house and some of the best I have ever eaten. Then a parcel of black pudding with a little gooseberry, washed down with a well made martini. Then into the kitchen for smoked eel and fermented wild garlic in a basket of fried potato which was just knockout good. Then to the table for bread with a conventional butter and another a vivid green, blended with parsley and lovage. Three spots each dishing out some very good bits of food.
The following lunch happens at a speed so precise I expect each plate is fitted with a pacemaker. Dish comes, wine is topped up, dish gets eaten, wine gets topped-up, wait seven minutes and dish arrives. Repeat. We get baked carrots with sea buckthorn and Doddington (a hard cheese a little like parmesan), that shows great balance and restraint, and a beetroot dish lifted with a little frozen horseradish and has the bite of quinoa for texture. I usually dislike beetroots; this has me pilfering from Claire’s plate when she’s not looking.
I’ve seen a rendition of the tartare dish before. It allegedly stems from Cellar Del Can Roca and found it’s way back to Cartmel where it’s become something of a signature. Eight years ago, when I first tried it, the idea of charcoal oil to make the raw beef taste cooked was groundbreaking. Now everyone is doing it. This version, with 80 day old beef, barbecued celeriac, mustard, and perfect teeny rings of pickled shallot, seems like the work of a man who has mastered his craft. It’s perfect. A dish with crab and turnip is all about the root vegetable, with the crab fighting for attention. I want to say that crab and turnip is a perfect partnership but I can’t. What I can say is that the turnip broth seasoned with soy is without question the best use for a turnip you will ever come across.
Just one month in, I can absolutely guarantee that the Guinea hen main will be in my top ten dishes of the year. The juicy square of meat with crisp fatty skin, the ragu of offal underneath a cloak of kohlrabi with kale sandwiched between that had been cooked in ham fat. The silkiest of jerusalem artichoke puree flecked with floral notes, the maggot-like Japanese artichokes which are buttery and nutty, hen of the wood mushrooms, and a jus so clear it could easily have been a reduced consome. That jus got me into trouble with Claire, chasing away at the last of it with my index finger to be told that this isn’t how to behave in places like this. I’ll take the slap on the wrist. There is nothing that could make this dish better. It is an absolute stunner.
We finish on a couple of desserts and the small matter of a trip to a cheese room. First up is a gingerbread ice cream and candied root vegetables under a flurry of pastry sticks, which is grown-up and downright delicious, followed by apples both as a mousse and caramelised terrine. The dish was full of clean herbaceaus notes with birch syrup and woodruff, decorated with the prettiest shards of caramel leaves. Another winner. Then the cheese room, which by now you may have noticed I am a little excited about. Seventeen British cheeses and one from Ireland, all immaculately stored. We chose six between two, served up with quince, red onion chutney, bread, and crackers. Order more wine. My work here is done.
The last time I saw Mark Birchall he was peering out of a gap in the service entrance to the kitchen of L’Enclume, looking pensive. Here, as we are among the last to finish up at lunch he is in a relaxed mood, seemingly helping front of house prepare for that evening’s dinner service. He asks how lunch was. “Pretty much perfect” I reply. Looking back the bill just shy of £300 seems a relative bargain, given the cocktails, the wine, the lunch, and the cheese. Moor Hall is a special restaurant, fully deserving of all the accolades bestowed over such a short period of time.