On an unseasonably balmy Saturday lunchtime, we sat outside and ate genuinely well. From the lightness of a rocket, butterbean and artichoke salad to the autumnal heartiness of smoked pork belly with savoy cabbage and beetroot, everything on our plates sang of quality ingredients and an intelligent approach to seasonality. My grouse was at just the right fleeting point between perfectly hung and high; it came with an oddly solid bread sauce, complete with addictively crispy burnt bits. Don't know if this was deliberate but it was jolly nice. And how heavenly to see savouries - a sinful, squidgy Welsh rarebit, Scotch woodcock and even black pudding on toast - for afters.
