not quite a pub dinner.

Last night I went to The Wykeham Arms in Winchester with WS. Locals know this place like the back of their hands and have grown accustomed to its treasures. But for passersby unaware of its contents, this place is a revelation. The Wykeham is almost a caricature for everything we hope and pray to find in a British pub, but so rarely do these days. Not to mention half the ladies in here look like stunt doubles for Miss Cackle from The Worst Witch.

Their food offering is surely the creme de la creme of pub grub. Not so fancy-pants it appears to shun it's roots, scattering too many meaningless price-inflating words across the menu that should only belong in kitchens like Heston's. But neither is it a selection of the cash-and-carry's finest, fresh from the freezer, microwaved for your pleasure. The Wykeham's food is British cooking at its true best - locally sourced, beautifully composed and focused above everything else on taste.

To start I had the special which was scallops with butternut squash sauce and William had a duck terrine.

Next, William had wild boar with potato fondant, and I had the perfectly pink rack of lamb.

Dessert was petit fours and bread and butter pudding, which came with beautiful blood orange.

Winchester's love affair with this pub is so easily understood, it's a pedigree specimen of a dying breed. Go.
Hamilton