After eight
- 5d
- 5 min read
Words by Jamie Crocker
A grand Cornish hotel proves tradition can still have plenty of piquancy.
The Dining Galleries Restaurant resides within one of Cornwall’s more distinctive hotels, a place that has been part country house, part gathering point for decades. There is nothing minimal about its décor. Portraits watch from the walls while careful detailing hints at the county’s past. Upholstery favours richness rather than restraint, contributing to an atmosphere that sits somewhere between a traditional hotel dining room and a slightly mischievous stage set. It feels designed for a leisurely dinner, where loquaciousness is discouraged in favour of conversation, as well as consumption, at a more considered pace.
By 8pm, on an unusually rainless evening in early March, my wife and I are being ushered into this space by a member of Penventon Hotel’s cadre of experienced staff. We are seated and ready to be indulged. Menus appeared as smoothly as cards dealt at the start of a familiar game. They were reassuringly clear with recognisable dishes, sound ingredients and combinations that didn’t suggest that they’d been concocted in a fever dream. Increasingly, restaurant menus read like metrical compositions in the style of a romantic poet, but here, the list enunciated itself straightforwardly.
My wife decided to go with a classic king prawn cocktail. The dish has had a peculiar journey through British food culture. It began life as a symbol of aspiration, became a cliché and is now returning as a menu stalwart that suggests it never really deserved to be ostracised because of the company it was forced to keep. The version here arrived exactly as one would wish: generous prawns resting in Marie Rose sauce, accompanied by boiled egg and slices of brown bread with butter.
The prawns themselves were plump and cool, the sauce properly balanced between sweetness, acidity and that faint whisper of paprika that gives the whole thing its character.
My own starter was chicken liver and cognac pâté with red onion and ale chutney served alongside toasted brioche. If the prawn cocktail was about nostalgia treated with a newfound reverence, the pâté was about richness, glorifying in its unwavering tradition as the starter of choice. The texture was pleasingly smooth without becoming paste-like, the liver flavour deepened by the cognac. The chutney brought a necessary sharpness, its sweetness edged with the faint and hoppy bitterness of ale. Brioche can sometimes push dishes into unnecessary sweet-laden indulgence, but here it played the correct role: warm, lightly toasted and acting as a buttery platform for the pâté.
One of the enduring pleasures of hotel dining rooms such as this is the cast of characters that they draw in. A little discreet observation and guarded comment feels almost obligatory – rather as in Hotel du Lac – and we found it hard to resist. Couples celebrating anniversaries and families enjoying an evening that feels just a shade more special, naturally catch the eye, while regulars, on easy terms with the staff, invite a moment’s attention of their own. In the Dining Galleries, all of this unfolds against a gentle hum of conversation in an atmosphere that carries both a sense of occasion and a hint of guilty pleasure.
Our entreés arrived with sufficient space to allow our first courses to be appreciated in their own right. My wife had chosen the eight-ounce fillet steak served with peppercorn sauce, roasted tomato, a portobello mushroom, fries and dressed rocket. A fillet steak can sometimes feel like a test of a kitchen’s nerve. Cook it properly and it becomes an indulgence worth the price. Miss the mark and it quickly reveals its leathery faults.
Cooked to the requested medium rare, it arrived with a properly seared exterior giving way to a tender interior. The peppercorn sauce was robust with no fiery temper, carrying just enough heat to remind you of its presence without smothering the beef. The supporting cast did their job without fuss. Fries were crisp and golden. The mushroom had absorbed enough heat from the grill to become almost meaty in texture. Rocket provided a necessary flash of bitterness against the richness of the steak and sauce.
My own main dish was char-grilled chicken supreme served with a bubble and squeak croquette, corn purée and pancetta. Chicken can often be the most cautious option on a menu, chosen when diners feel uncertain. Here, it proved anything but dull.
The chicken itself was moist with a skin that had caught just enough char from the grill to bring a smoky depth. The bubble and squeak croquette was perhaps the most enjoyable element on the plate. Crisp on the outside and soft within, it carried that familiarity of potato and cabbage cooked together until they form something far greater than the sum of their parts. Corn purée added sweetness while pancetta introduced salty crunch. The effect was carefully judged and felt like a dish constructed by someone who understands that comfort food still benefits from precision rather than being slathered onto the plate like a school dinner.
By this point, the room had settled fully into its rhythm. Glasses were refilled, plates cleared, and small conversations built across the room, all underpinned by service that deserves a mention. It was attentive without being overbearing, the young staff showing skills beyond their years, with no one imploring you to ‘enjoy’ as they headed back to the kitchen
Dessert menus appeared. Resistance felt unnecessary. My wife ordered Mrs P’s tiramisu, described as an indulgent original Venetian family recipe. Tiramisu is one of those desserts that can easily become heavy-handed if misjudged. Too much mascarpone and it cloys. Too much coffee and it sharpens unpleasantly.
This version leaned toward generosity but remained balanced. Layers of coffee-soaked sponge alternated with mascarpone cream that was rich yet airy. A cocoa dusting provided the final bitterness needed to prevent the whole thing from drifting into sweetness overload. It was, and always will be, a dessert designed for enjoyment.
I opted for the warm rhubarb almond frangipane tart accompanied by spiced rhubarb compote and clotted cream. Rhubarb remains one of Britain’s (and my) most reliable dessert companions, its sharpness capable of cutting through sugar and butter with consistent determination. It arrived warm enough to release the scent of almonds. The frangipane was soft and nutty, offering a layer of support to the rhubarb. The compote carried gentle spice, which lifted the fruit without overwhelming it. A spoonful of clotted cream added that inevitable Cornish indulgence, bringing the whole plate home.
Drinks had been simple. My wife chose a glass of Rioja with her meal. I stayed with elderflower cordial during dinner before finishing with a double espresso alongside dessert.
Establishments such as the Dining Galleries do not attempt the anxious reinvention of themselves every six-months, as seen in many city restaurants. Instead, they rely on consistency, hospitality and a menu that is the right side of the disturbingly experimental.
There is a tendency in modern restaurant dining to search for novelty for its own sake. Yet evenings like this remind us that novelty is not always the point. Sometimes the point is to be conventional by ordering a prawn cocktail that tastes exactly as we want it to, a steak cooked to a point where it can’t be improved upon or a pudding that leaves you feeling happy.
As we left the hotel, the night air carried the faint smell of rain. Inside, the restaurant continued its steady work of courting guests who had come for the same reason we had: the pleasure of an unrushed dinner in a place that is comfortable with offering hospitality that acknowledges a past but has an eye on the future too.
Not every restaurant needs to shout for attention – although the Dining Galleries has just been awarded its first AA Rosette – some simply keep the dining room full and the plates real. At the Penventon, on a Saturday evening in March, that seemed
entirely sufficient.
