Pub Grub.

On my birthday, we had our weekly team ‘huddle’ call (I’m hard-core and don’t take my special day off). At the end of these calls, if there’s a birthday that week, everybody sings “Happy Birthday” to you. That day, as the call progressed towards its inevitable and embarrassing conclusion, my skin crawled, as you might expect. After the sorry ritual was over, thankfully shared between me and three other people who were born around the same time (safety in numbers, right?), my manager also asked me what I was doing to celebrate.

“Going to Canterbury for a meal.“

“Nice! Is that Michelin star?”

My skin crawled again.

“(Myes).”

I’m a modest guy. When you discount all what I would regard as ‘vital’ virtues such as not stealing things, not being racist or not killing people, for me, modesty is the trait I value most in others. Talking about visiting nice restaurants is at odds with this, and there’s always an element of my blogging life where I ask myself why I even bother writing about them. For my birthday this year though, we discovered a Michelin-starred restaurant that embodies modesty more than any I’ve been to before, with food that we agreed made it vastly superior to places with more stars and twice the egos.

I’m not naïve.  Michelin-starred restaurants don’t get to where they are by resting on their laurels or being shy about what they do, but our dinner experience at The Fordwich Arms was effortlessly fabulous.  Its dining room exuded a laid-back, pubbish vibe (partly because it is indeed a pub) that belied its credentials. You felt relaxed there, and even after six courses of joy, I felt like one might when they leave their local.

The Fordwich Arms is one of two pubs in Fordwich, the smallest town in the U.K. We took a taxi ride there from the beautiful city of Canterbury, just ten minutes down the road. You enter the restaurant and find yourself standing in the dining room in a pretty, but not stunning pub.  There’s no host desk and the bartender leans over the bar to greet you. It’s Michelin quiet, and the staff are impeccably turned out.  Some serving is conducted by chefs.

Not being shown to our table, the bartender gestures to a “booth on the left”.  Confusion-induced dyspraxia taking hold, we accidentally take a booth on the right but are not asked to move. The restaurant area is next to the bar, just like it might be in any old gastropub. Again, it’s nice but not glam. A Christmas tree takes up half the space, there’s a roaring fire, and the booths are cozy. The only thing that suggests that you’re about to eat somewhere special are the easily missed plates and trophies propped up on the walls behind the booths, detailing the restaurant’s many accolades. After the meal, the European remarked to me how she had gone in behind me, taken a seat, and was thinking,

“Just where the fuck has he taken us for dinner?”

The Fordwich Arms celebrates British food and drink. We kicked off the tasting menu and wine pairing with two glasses of an English sparkling rosé from the Rathfinny Estate in Sussex. The pangs of hunger meant the bubbles went straight to our heads. The amuse bouche saved us, taking the edge off our ravenousness, as well as settling our nerves about what kind of food we would be eating tonight.

Not that we needed to worry, as the meal was spectacular. Of note was the duck liver parfait, dangerously rich and whipped until it was silky smooth. It was served with savoury doughnuts, which was the best idea since sliced bread, which wouldn’t have been that good an idea if sliced savoury doughnuts existed beforehand. I used them to mop up every last particle of the terrine like some calorific, tasty mop.

We also both agreed the turbot with Hen of the Woods was incredible; its balance and culinary skill creating one of the best (and meatiest) fish courses I have ever eaten. I also enjoyed the main course of venison; the accompanying salt-baked beetroot was both heavy with umami and sweetness, and carried the game along beautifully. We opted for a supplementary course of local lobster (this area of Kent is very near the coast and benefits from some amazing seafood).  It was barbequed and slathered in a grape and spiced lobster butter sauce.

As always with these restaurants, the devil is in the details. What besotted me about the Fordwich Arms was that everything was done to a tee, and the meal felt generous and experiential. Not only was the cookery perfect, each dish came with a little side canapé of something that was related to the main event. For example, the turbot came with a morsel of battered turbot cheek, the venison was served with a plate of offal coquettes, and the lobster was partnered with choux buns and tartlets topped with lobster mousse.  The canapés made you feel looked after, and for me, conjured up images of enthusiastic chefs crafting great food and thinking to themselves,

“Well, we have these bits left over, what can we do with them?”

The pride of the staff was enchanting and infectious. They would present each plate, beaming from ear to ear and giving the most thorough explanation you could imagine. The sommelier was something else. Each glass of wine was explained with theatrical and knowledgeable storytelling, more than a little laughter and his honest – sometimes brutal – opinion (“The region this wine comes from sucks but this one’s alright”).  The pairings were all spot on.

Finally, if there was one thing that elevated our meal at The Fordwich Arms to the levels of greatness not seen since Anne Sophie Pic or Alain Ducasse, it was the most modest of courses, the breadbasket.  In true Fordwich style, it was somehow elevated but understated at the same time. I’ll not explain it, because I think it’ll speak for itself.

Honey and candied bacon brioche served with salted smoked bacon butter. 

Modest?  Maybe.  Tasty? Beyond.

Visited on 8^th December 2023.

Six course tasting menu and wine pairing for two, lobster course, aperitifs, and digestifs came to just over £six hundred.