Food memory is a wonderful thing, in that it can return to a very specific time and place, putting a taste in your mouth whether good or bad. Mine goes back a long time and starts sensibly enough; Moms stew – the only decent dish in her repertoire – a thick gravy of overcooked vegetables and cheap cuts of lamb, with floury dumplings the size of pool balls, soaked through with the meaty liquor. And curry and chips in a tray from the Cantonese down the road, one tray between two, eaten with mom in front of the fire whilst watching TFI Friday. Piled onto thick pieces of Hovis buttered an inch thick with Anchor, impossible to eat without getting turmeric stained fats dribbling down the arm and on to whatever fad I was representing on my t-shirt at that time. God I miss that woman every day. And later in my teens, my first snail exploding like a water balloon in my mouth on a school camping trip in Normandy, my first Nando’s with Mel, my first jerk chicken with Denise, and then my first Michelin starred meal with someone that wasn’t Barry Joseph, but a girl, a girl who was happy for me to pay for us to go to Simpsons together. I had guinea fowl for main; roasted breast and pastille of leg; a crispy cigar of braised meat and warming spices. It shared a plate with jewelled couscous that I’ve replicated hundreds of times since, and a thick puree of date and lemon. I think about that puree at least once a week: I can taste it now that I think about it, and I mention that puree to every chef I ever meet who has worked at Simpsons. It takes ages, apparently. It was the first eureka moment in a life fortunately full of them. There had been dishes bestowed with stars before that guinea fowl dish, but this, this is what you pay the big money for.

Adam Bennett was on the pass that day. He’s a proper chef and if you can’t believe me, Google his CV. The Dorchester, Simpsons, the highest we’ve ever achieved at Boccuse D’Or, then The Cross, where he has been on the pass ever since. His style hasn’t changed too much since The Simpsons days. I doubt it needed too. There is fashionable cooking and there is great cooking. Adam is firmly in the latter.
It’s stoic inside the dining room of the pub. Walls clad in dark wood, it has the feel of a tea room in a National Trust building. There’s little baskets of potato and taramasalata, balls of chicken liver parfait bound in fig gel, and cheese croquettes, the pick of the canapés, nutty and balanced out by a tart apple puree.

I get the crispy egg to start because that’s what I had at that Simpsons meal all those years ago. The garnish may change but the centrepiece stays the same; very, very soft boiled egg, shell removed, panko’d and deep fried. A kind of meatless scotch egg, if you like. This had peas, lettuce, Parma ham, Old Winchester cheese, and roast onion sauce. Simple, delicious, and seasonal given we ate mid-September. Sophie has courgette soup of stunning depth and colour, poured table side onto pine nuts and feta. We both raid the sourdough bread to finish it off.


A pork main is classical cooking at its best. Belly, cheek, and fillet wrapped in ham, all treated with absolute care and seasoned within an inch of its life. Cabbage that has the whisper of vinegar present, mash potato,and damson puree, all bound together in a trotter sauce that Kofman would be proud of. I’ve eaten extremely well this year, and, seriously, that sauce is right up there; a copper gloss of roasted bones and aromas, with a tiny dice of wobbly pig feet that add a mild funk. I’d travel to eat it again. Probably will do soon. Everyone else on the table has lamb. The precision is there but I have pig to eat, so much so that I only try a tiny piece of the pink rump with potatoes that have a coastal whiff and another stellar sauce.


Whilst the rest of the table are on the cheaper £50 lunch menu, I’m on the al a carte. Dessert are the only time it shows any gulf in quality. Sophie has Gorgonzola with figs, walnuts, bitter leaves and a local honey which is the Ronseal of desserts. I get ile flottantes, which happens to be one of my favourite things in the world. This one is just perfect; loads of vanilla in the creme anglais, poached meringues that could float away if it wasn’t for the salted caramel ice cream perched on a disc of caramel. It’s two star pastry work. Quite beautiful.


It was the mother-in-laws birthday which explains the excess of champagne and the father-in-law picking up the bill. They loved it; Linda saying how it is one of her favourite meals of the year, and all four of us trying to find a way to get back before the year end. Service was unfussy and relaxed, the food pretty immaculate. The Cross is a special restaurant with a special head chef. Kenilworth is extremely lucky to have it.
9/10