The Angel, Ludlow

THERE is an eccentric tradition among some victuallers in this country of attracting custom by insulting their customers. It could be for their dress, their politics, accent or general demeanour. This seems, on the face of it, like a practice guaranteed to discourage trade, and yet the English not only tolerate it, but will often seek it out, to provoke or challenge the owner into new heights of rudeness. The French, of course, are quite used to maitre d’s looking down their noses at them, but the Americans wouldn’t begin to understand the concept; in their country, serving staff are encouraged to sweeten their service with exaggerated exhortations to ‘Enjoy’ or ‘Have a nice day’, and other vapid clichés.

In England there have been several establishments where punters are routinely insulted and the more offensive the proprietor, the more busy their place will be, though usually with the proviso that the victuals they offer are better than average.

Among the most obvious examples of this kind of rudeness was Kim Tickell, of the Tickell Arms, in Whittlesford, just south of Cambridge. Squire Tickell was an individual of spectacular eccentricity, who died in 1990 and would probably be banged up now for his anti-wokery. The front door of the handsome, former Georgian manor house he had inherited, painted powder blue with fine gothic windows, had frequently pinned on it a handwritten sign declaring ‘Absolutely no dirty, barefoot, long-haired Lefties”. Reading this, Mr P felt a frisson of combat as he pulled open the door. The place was full of bumptious students, Wagnerian music, and a handsome young German waiter called Siggy, rushing about with pursed lips and short busy strides. The silver candelabra on the tables were heavily encrusted in dribbled wax and flickering logs smoked in an open fire. The proprietor spotted the young Mr P and cocked an eyebrow, before ordering him to take his feet off the table, although evidently, and sadly, he could find no further fault. Subsequently, Mr P learned, Mr Tickell, who kept a medieval mace behind the bar with which to terrorise clients of whom he disapproved, was up in court on a charge of threatening behaviour, or possibly ABH (regrettably, Mr P can’t remember the details).

Peter Langan, proprietor of Langan’s Bistro in 70s Mayfair was also renowned for issuing drunken abuse at most of his clients, or crawling under the table and biting their ankles. Not far from there, in Soho, insults were ritually handed out by Norman Balon, landlord of the Coach & Horses, where Mr P once enjoyed an invitation to lunch with Private Eye.

From this tradition sprang Marco-Pierre White and the habitually foul-mouthed and foul-mannered Gordon Ramsay. More recently, closer to home in Ludlow’s Tower Street, the former proprietor of the French Pantry enjoyed haranguing those who had criticised his restaurant on Tripadvisor with pithy responses….

20 October 2015.“I equate people like yourself, who tirelessly and gratuitously post scathing reviews of restaurants, to the pesky neighbourhood cat who comes and defecates on your flowerbed under the cover of darkness. You’re a pathetic individual, who’s narcissism tells more of your sense of self-loathing than it does of any knowledge of French gastronomy. Come and talk to me in person, I challenge you.”

Martyn Emsen, the chef-proprietor of the subject of this review is also part of that well-established English tradition. His demeanour comes somewhere between Kim Tickell and Gordon Ramsay, but is generally easily dealt with. Besides, the Angel is in the enviable position of being easily the most sophisticated place in which to eat for miles around. All the elements which Mr P seeks in an eating place are here. Enjoyable, quirky furnishings, perfect lighting, historic architectural features, like the half-circle bay windows that deliver a lovely view of Broad Street, always good music, and first-class service with the right dash of irony.

Mr Emsen is without doubt the grumpiest chef in Shropshire, but he is also the best. For his review of the place, Mr P’s guest was a man he last entertained at the Pheasant in Neenton, and a descendant of a distinguished family of Staffordshire Beaker folk. Like Mr P, a fairly fussy eater, he is not slow to point out any shortcomings he perceives.

The Chef here has several strengths, most notably, Italian cuisine (which he does a native) Spanish tapas, and sea food, which Mr P suspects is his greatest love. Although Mr P and his guest were eating fish that evening, they kicked off with a plate of 48 month aged, acorn fed finest Iberico jamon, thinly sliced – a special treat.

For a second starter, Mr P chose a long-standing favourite. The moules at The Angel are always outstanding, the soup balanced and full of subtle flavour.

His guest looked happy with is pickled herring with dill. He had ordered a bottle of Guinness and stayed with that for the rest of dinner – an odd choice, but it worked. Mr P drank a large glass of Domaine Astruc Chardonnay which saw him through three courses. It performed notably well with his main dish of fillets of sole, cooked so that the delicate flavours were cleverly brought to the fore. Particularly good was a dish of spinach which came with it. Mr P doesn’t know what goes into a dressed crab, but opposite him, his guest declared his ‘perfect’.

Mr P’s friends (those few who remain after his years of writing this food page) have been telling him he looks too skinny since dining regularly at Shrewsbury Hospital, so he was ready to pile into a Tarte de Santiago – a Spanish pud with almonds served with creme fraiche and berries. Delicious and girth expanding. A super dinner all round although Mr P should own up to some partiality in this month’ s review, simply because eating at The Angel is always special and he doesn’t want the proprietor to start shouting at him and banning him. Mr Pernickety - info@misterpermickety.com