A TALBOT is a large white or light-coloured hound of an English variety, having long hanging ears and heavy jaws.
Basically, it’s the Boris Johnson of the mutt genus.
Formerly used for tracking and hunting, it’s not hard to imagine, in its pomp, one such romping through the woods and meadows of Biddulph Grange. Although one imagines the neighbouring Talbot pub these days sources its fowl in rather more orthodox ways.
The Talbot, below, is on the verge of celebrating its double centenary. Times have changed since original publican Ralph Lowe had his name above the door. While Ralph presumably wafted smoke signals up the chimney, the modern Talbot is rampant on Twitter.
But, although extensively refurbished for a 21st century clientele – these days women rarely want to sit by the spittoon – it’s maintained a certain olde worlde charm, tastefully decorated in hues of beige and brown with plenty of timbers and the odd hunting hound captured in frosted glass.
Of course, none of this was noticed by the kids. Their first question when I mentioned we were going out for a ‘treat tea’ was ‘is it McDonald’s?’.
We don’t go there often, I promise. It’s just coincidence that when we arrive, Antonio, the manager, greets us with a cry of ‘Ah, the Woodhouses! Five minutes early! I’ve reserved your usual table!’. The ‘treat’ factor of eating out is totally lost on the children. I keep telling them that when I was little we never ate out. And it’s true. The first time I ate in an organised environment was in the canteen when we visited Uncle Sid in prison.
We simply never ate out. Ever. I was astonished when I got to about 13 and realised other kids were doing this kind of thing on a regular basis. Not that I’m bothered. Chances are it wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience. I’m not saying my dad had a problem but I’m fairly sure he’d have chosen all three courses from the wine list.
Anyway, I wanted to sit by the window, a fine looking table beneath a chandelier. Steph, however, felt we’d be better ‘tucked away in our own little corner’. Whether that was a reflection on me, or the children, I’m unsure.
Whatever, it soon became apparent we were going to have a fine time. To describe the staff at The Talbot as ‘welcoming’ is akin to saying that Frankel was a moderately OK thoroughbred. You know you’re in a place that understands children when the tomato sauce just arrives.
Every Wednesday at The Talbot, I discovered, is Vintage Pie Day, to my mind a national holiday in the making.
I originally fancied the duck leg pie, wondering whether they’d be sticking out the top à la Stargazy, but it wasn’t available on the day. Instead I plumped for spiced pulled lamb pie (£11.95), one of three created for the pub by celebrity chef James Martin.
It was a remarkable affair, reminiscent, as ‘vintage’ would suggest, of when a pie was a pie, something put afore a farmer after a hard day’s ploughing, or, in my case, someone who’d just completed a 450-word review of Big Body Squad.
While reprimanded for sticking my elbows out, crust penetration proved simple.
The filling was an intense and aromatically spicy experience. Next time I go for a curry, hold the pilau, I’m asking for pastry.
Steph, meanwhile, had aromatic braised pork belly served with bubble and squeak potato cake, black pudding, apple fritter, and sticky ginger beer glaze (£11.99). She reports herself ‘not usually a black pudding fan’ – even 10 years into a marriage you can always find out something new – but found it not bitter and with a pleasantly crumbly texture. The pork, meanwhile, was meltingly soft with good crackling, all in all, a ‘lovely tasty combination of flavours’. The children’s menu was a more than reasonable two courses and drink for £6.95.
Archie had sausage and mash (replaced on request with chips) with peas and gravy. Barney had battered cod loin and chips (he held the mushy peas, if you see what I mean).
They even talked to us while eating. Although I wasn’t actually that keen to hear one of Archie’s school friends had been sick on his sandwiches.
They finished off with chocolate ice-cream, while Steph had raspberry sorbet (£3.45), a ‘good mixture of tartness and sweetness’, and I had Eton Mess Sundae (£5.25) – strawberry mousse, meringue, ice-cream, whipped cream, and fresh strawberries. Both were served in vast, heavy, glass-stemmed bowls. I fear the consumption of mine has put at least five minutes on my expected time for the Potters ‘Arf. With side orders and drinks the bill came to £58.70.
The myth goes that Eton mess was first created when a meringue dessert was accidentally crushed by a Labrador during a picnic at Eton College. I prefer to think it was a Biddulphian hunting dog.
