This week’s review hasn’t quite gone according to plan. Originally I was going to review The Lyndhurst, which came under new management back in May. It’s fair to say that it’s had a chequered time since then, with the new landlords complaining vociferously to the Reading Chronicle, more than once, about what they said were false claims that they planned to turn the place into a sports bar.
The way they refuted that was interesting, I thought. We’re just installing a fruit machine, just like every other pub, they said. We’re just putting in a jukebox, like every other pub. Nuts, really. They’d replaced the managers of the best food pub Reading had ever seen, and their mission was to be just like everybody else. They missed the obvious point: if you’re just like everybody else, why should we drink at yours?
Anyway, I largely stayed out of it – because I know I could easily be seen as partial – but from their Facebook page they looked a lot like a sports bar to me. During Euro 2024 it was all badly generated AI images of three lions wearing England shirts and drinking pints of lager in a generic pub, or one especially tasteless – and arguably xenophobic – picture of a lion mauling a bull to coincide with the England-Spain match. But I’m probably just a woke snowflake, because I also winced when the pub described the rumours flying around as “Chinese whispers”.
They then decided to do food, so they put a menu up on Facebook and a few people – not me, I should add – were critical of it. “Please keep your comments to yourself” the pub said. Then they closed for nearly a week, not the first time they’d shut at very short notice. As previously, they blamed having work carried out, but it looked suspiciously like a sulk. All very strange, and I’ve lost track of the number of people who have messaged me saying what the fuck is going on at the Lyndhurst? My reply is invariably the same: God only knows.
But then at the end of July they announced that they’d taken on a new chef, Chef Roots. Now, I’ve never had his food but I know of him by reputation – he cooked for a while at the Roebuck, and at the Three Tuns, and in lockdown he ran a street food business called Pattie N’ Pulled which had its fans. I thought this was a very smart move by the new management – take on a known chef and try to recapture your reputation as a food pub. It all sounded very promising.
I was even prepared to overlook just how weird the menu the pub put out was. If anything in it was correct it was by accident, and every time you looked you spotted a different clanger. Some items were in a completely different font for no particular reason. The pricing was random – £11.96 here, £24.97 there, £4.60 somewhere else. And the spelling mistakes – oh my goodness. Buttet milk chicken, paremsan fries, oniom rings, triple cooled chips. It was all a bit Officer Crabtree.
So once I found out that Chef Roots was cooking at the Lyndhurst I was interested in going back, and I had a volunteer to come with me. That was none other than Matt, who made the very wise decision of proposing to my sister in law recently, which means he’s as good as family. So we agreed a date, when I was back from holiday. I was looking forward to it.
Then it all went tits up when I discovered that Chef Roots had barely lasted a week before moving on from the Lyndhurst, a development which the Lyndhurst decided not to report. And then more weirdness emanated from the pub. A recent Google review – one star, of course – was posted by a guy who was just verbally abused by the regulars as he walked past the smoking area with a friend and his dog. He put up footage from his phone which appeared to bear this out: it was a really uncomfortable watch.
And then someone posted on Reddit about the Lyndhurst’s Sunday lunch was, and she wasn’t pulling her punches. “Unseasoned. Small portions. Cold vegetables. Misleading menu. Said ‘homemade’ Yorkshire puddings and when I inquired about allergens the waitress brought out a frozen bag of Aldi’s own Yorkshire pudding” she said. “Actually speechless at how bad the food was.”
So I sent Matt a WhatsApp: Looks like we won’t be reviewing the Lyndhurst, the chef has already sacked it off. And Matt replied. Anywhere else we can review? Well, I can ride shotgun while you do it. And that’s when I thought of the Bell at Waltham St Lawrence, a cosy pub I had loved when I first reviewed it nine years ago. I’d been back since, but not for a long time, and it felt ripe for a revisit. So this week Matt picked me up and we headed off down the A4 in search of dinner. It was the first time I’ve ever been chauffeured to a review in a Porsche, and I very quickly decided that I could get used to it.
Much what I said when I visited the Bell in 2015 is equally true today, on face value at least: Waltham St Lawrence is still a pretty village and the pub is the jewel in its crown. It’s almost the platonic ideal of a village pub, and you got a whiff of woodsmoke as you walked in. But the one thing that was different was a slight change of the guard – back then it was run by twin brothers Iain and Scott Ganson, but last year Iain left to become the new head chef at Thames Lido. So was it business as usual at the Bell, or had things changed?
Paying it a visit on a Tuesday night it was almost empty with just a few regulars at the bar. “You can sit anywhere you like” said the chap after I told him we had a reservation, and although the front room was tempting we decided to go for the dining room, a less casual space up some stairs. Even so, that was stripped back and neutral – I seem to remember on a previous visit that there was feature wallpaper of some kind, but instead it was a calm, tasteful room. We were the only people in it, which gave my dinner date with my future brother-in-law a strangely intimate feel, like they’d opened just for us.
Still, we both enjoyed getting a word in edgeways for a change. I love my in-laws dearly, but the men in the family are like the men in Sex And The City: you might enjoy it when they crop up, but everybody knows they aren’t the feature attraction. It’s all about the women, one-upping one another with their increasingly funny stories, and the best thing you can do is enjoy the ride (or, if you’re my father-in-law, tidy up after everybody and/or hide in the garage). So here Matt and I were, talking for a whole evening in some strange inversion of the Bechdel Test.
The menu the night we visited was decidedly compact: four starters, three mains (one meat, one fish, one vegetarian) and three desserts. I seemed to remember from past experience that there used to be more on offer, and although I may have been wrong the evidence suggested we’d been unlucky that night: a picture on Instagram later in the week showed an additional main course that would have expanded the options a little. But no matter, although the menu was almost narrow enough to be constricting we both found things to order. Starters hovered around a tenner, mains were scattered more widely around the twenty pound mark.
But first, drink – and the first indication of interesting things at the Bell. They won Reading CAMRA Cider Pub Of The Year this year, and it showed, with a blackboard listing plenty of interesting choices including Tilehurst’s Seven Trees Cider. And the wine list was full of temptation, all of it available by the glass. I couldn’t choose between a couple and Ganson, who was behind the bar that night, kindly let me try some of each (even if the locals heckled him, saying that this was uncharacteristic generosity for a Scot). He even didn’t complain when I decided to go for a third instead, although they were all gorgeous, and let me try some of that. It was a Priorat, from Catalunya – Priorat is always worth trying, if you find it on a list – and I thought it was terrific at ten pounds a glass.
I seem to remember years ago having a conversation with the Bell on Twitter saying that more places should bring back the 125ml glass of wine, or the 250ml carafe. Well, although they do serve 125ml glasses they’ve gone one step further by using a Coravin for seemingly all of the bottles on the list. “It means we can offer about forty wines by the glass” said Ganson, which for me would almost be reason enough to visit the Bell on its own, especially if you have a nice chap driving you home in a Porsche.
“I’d also like a pint of bitter shandy please, which bitter do you recommend?”
“Hoppit” said Ganson without hesitation, and so Matt got a shandy made with Loddon’s finest, which he seemed to like.
Matt had the best of the starters, and I didn’t realise until much later that it was essentially the starter I’d ordered and enjoyed nine years ago. A slab of pigeon terrine came bound in bacon, served with a couple of beautifully burnished slices of griddled toast and – always the clincher – a trio of cornichons. Matt enjoyed this, but because his manners were impeccable he let me try some and I thought it was knockout – slightly gamey, the texture spot on, no hint of bounce or jelly to be seen. Matt also let me have all of his cornichons, but I think that was because he didn’t like them, rather than down to his impeccable manners.
I did less well, but only by a whisper. My selection of charcuterie from Cotswold-based Salt Pig had nearly everything you could hope for, and most of it was very enjoyable. Coarse rounds of chorizo, fatty ribbons of pancetta, superb pork collar. Only the spiced pork loin underwhelmed, and although I had enough cornichons, that was partly because I’d inherited Matt’s.
But it felt like something was missing, and I wasn’t sure what it was. I think a little griddled toast would have lifted this, or even some caperberries, or even more cornichons (although more cornichons, like more cowbell, is just my answer to many of life’s problems). WIthout that, it felt a little unbalanced. Looking back at the Bell’s menu I saw that it included something I’d missed, whipped lardo – also from Salt Pig, I presume – on toast. I wish I’d noticed that, because it would have been delicious. Especially if it came with cornichons.
By this point I was on to a second glass of wine. Ganson had suggested another Spanish red, this time from Bierzo, a single varietal Mencia, and it was every bit the equal of the Priorat. I found myself thinking that even though the same time last week I’d been in Granada, in thirty degree heat, sitting outside a bar enjoying cold beer and tapas there were consolations to autumn – red wine, woodsmoke and cosy pubs not least. Besides, Strictly was back on the telly.
My main course bridged the gap between my week in Andalusia and the increasingly autumnal feel of things back home. I rarely order risotto, and I almost never make it myself – who has the time to stand at a stove for thirty minutes? – but the Bell’s version was made with Isle Of Wight tomatoes and Spenwood, and better British ingredients are hard to imagine. I had been spoiled by the exceptional tomatoes you get on the continent, but the ones that come out of the Isle Of Wight are absolutely the next best thing.
And it was mollifying comfort on a plate, a rich dish of sticky, nutty rice, topped with tomatoes that had been roasted and slightly dried, liberally dusted with one of my favourite cheeses which just so happens to be made down the road in Spencer’s Wood, the closest thing Blighty gets to Parmesan. On paper, this was the perfect thing to make you happier about the nights drawing in and being able to see your breath in the air – a gentle but insistent bear hug of a dish.
It was almost perfect, but not quite. I would have liked it to have been a little more seasoned, for a bit more salt to balance out the sweetness of the tomatoes. But I only decided that in hindsight, looking at a completely denuded plate, and hindsight is always a wonderful thing. I can’t remember the last time I ordered a risotto in a restaurant, but I won’t be able to say that next time I do.
Matt chose the Bambi Burger, a dish which has been on the Bell’s menu every single time I’ve visited. He wasn’t sure about it, which is how Matt discovered that he maybe wasn’t wild about venison. That meant I got to try a fair amount of it, and for what it’s worth I really loved it. Venison is a challenging meat to make burgers with, on account of it being so lean and lacking in fat, so to make something so delicious that didn’t fall into the trap of being dry and crumbly was no mean feat.
And again, hats off to the Bell for having a decent, sturdy bun and griddling it to give it the extra heft it needed. If I came back to the Bell, and hopefully I will before too long, I would make a beeline for this. The skinny chips, I suspect, were bought in: it might have been nice to have something chunkier, but they did the job.
Both of us felt like we had permission to order dessert: Matt because his main hadn’t hit the spot and me because mine had. We both gravitated towards the sticky toffee pudding – not something I’d normally order, but as the other two choices were cheese and oatcakes or an affogato I did feel my hand had been forced. I was sorry not to see the beer ice cream the Bell always used to make, which for me was one of the most intriguing and idiosyncratic things they did, but you can’t win them all.
It’s another nice echo of my original visit, because sticky toffee pudding was on the table then too. I think that the Bell has spent the last nine years perfecting it, because I loved this. It was a deep, dense delight, swathed in a cracking toffee sauce and crowned with a sphere of glossy ice cream – no clotted cream or the like here – and it made me wonder how many great sticky toffee puddings I might have missed out on over the years because of my vague prejudice against hot desserts. It was fantastic, and it helped, as the whole evening had, make me feel a little less sad about the changing of the seasons.
I could have stayed and drunk wine and chatted away until they chucked us out. But I’m not sure how much fun that would have been for Matt, who was on the Diet Coke by then. Besides, he had to be in London for work the next day so I settled up and we were on our way. Our dinner – three courses and two drinks apiece – came to ninety-six pounds, not including tip, which I thought was as good value as anything is these days in 2024. We shared trade secrets on how to manage our in-laws all the way home, and if any of them happen to be reading this I absolutely promise I’m kidding.
I was so happy to find the Bell still close to its best self, and if I’d have liked a little more breadth to the menu that was easily outweighed by the pluses – the service, that beautiful spot, the woodsmoke and the exceptional range of wine and cider. For many years, when people have asked me where they could have dinner a little drive away from Reading, the Bell has made my list – a list which shrunk when the Miller Of Mansfield closed, grew when I so enjoyed The Plough earlier in the year.
But we were getting to the point where I was recommending the Bell without having any recent experience to go on, and I felt like a fraud doing that. I’m very happy to have sorted that, and pleased that I can renew my endorsement. That I had a properly agreeable evening and a ride in a Porsche just added to my joy. Reading may have one fewer pub that does really great food and makes you feel welcome. But there are consolations to be found elsewhere, just as there are with the end of summer.
The Bell – 8.0
The Street, Waltham St Lawrence, RG10 0JJ
0118 9341788
Edible Reading 