Fitzherbert Arms, Swynnerton: Alan Cookman restaurant review

THE Fitzherberts, whose ancestral seat is just across the road from the pub, supplied us with the coolest cat we ever had.

Victoria wasn't exactly a personal gift from his lordship, but she was raised on the estate and she had the innate self-assurance that only comes with good breeding.

Silky black, demure and aristocratic, she treated the other feline riff-raff with withering disdain.

She was a frightful snob, but a little stunner all the same.

And how did I repay the Fitzherberts for giving us Victoria? By debunking the long-cherished myth that the poet Longfellow wrote his famous verse The Village Blacksmith in Swynnerton.

By dint of scholarly investigation and the assiduous use of learned sources, I was able to show that the tale couldn't possibly be true.

I don't know the real location of the spreading chestnut tree under which Longfellow's village smithy stood, but it certainly wasn't in Swynnerton.

Oddly enough, this devastating exposé was received with complete equanimity by villagers. I was not declared persona non grata, and indeed we received an exceptionally warm welcome on this occasion.

This was only partly because we'd occupied the table nearest the blazing fire in the reception area. I noticed that some men at the bar were looking at their watches, wondering how long it would be before we got up and moved to another table.

It was less than a minute.

The Fitz, as it is popularly known, has enjoyed renaissances before, but it seems to be on a high at the moment, thanks to some truly first-class home cooking.

The range of bar meals is extensive, interesting and moderately priced, but we were here to check out the cuisine in the à la carte restaurant.

Boldly re-decorated since our last visit five years ago, the restaurant is nothing if not different.

I don't think I've ever seen black chandeliers before, for a start, and the interior decor overall has the stamp of a designer who was not hidebound by convention.

Black is the dominant colour, but there's also white and gold with fabrics and wall-coverings used in unexpected ways.

It takes a bit of getting used to, but it does grow on you.

The menu takes no getting used to at all, although it's the type that makes it infuriatingly difficult to come to any sort of decision.

This was a welcome home dinner for the Son & Heir, who was just back from the Far East and more jet-lagged than we feared.

He did well with his starter of plump fresh scallops on rich black pudding with a cauliflower purée (£6.95), but by the time his sirloin steak (£13.75) was served he had begun to look decidedly spaced out.

He did make some impression on what was obviously a sublime steak, but the big flat mushroom, the giant onion rings and the classic hand-cut chips went almost untouched.

I started with the Arnold Bennett tart (£4.95), a variation on the great man's celebrated omelette, with similar ingredients – cheese, smoked haddock – but in a short crust pastry case and with spinach for good measure. Excellent.

Herself had the risotto cakes (£4.45), billed as "wild garlic cheese bound with arborio rice, pan-seared and coupled with a sweet red pepper dressing". Crispy on the outside, creamy within, it was clearly a hit.

She followed this with a square of deep and succulent belly pork (£13.75), crowned with cracking crackling, served on creamed leeks, caramelised apple and white wine sauce. Divine, but enough for two, surely.

My venison steak (£14.75) was pink, lean and melt in-the-mouth tender, served with braised red cabbage with cranberry and juniper, resting on a whole grain mustard sauce.

We also had fine green beans, new potatoes, carrots and cabbage, and the unstinting portions left no room whatsoever for pudding.

The Son & Heir is looking forward to reading this to find out what he ate.