Declaring in print that any new joint is a blissful find is probably a spurious blessing. Presently, Fordwich, three miles east of Canterbury and officially Britain’s smallest town, is gorgeously unspoiled. By this I mean Fordwich is unbesmirched by Londoners, who, as I write, lie a mere 63 miles away and are now reading that Dan Smith, an ex-Clove Club chef, has taken harness of a gargantuan country boozer in this tiny town.
Recall, if you will, the plight of the poor people of Seasalter in north Kent when Stephen Harris transmogrified The Sportsman into a restaurant-world sacred cow. Seasalter did not deserve the metropolitan elite washing up daily, in their peculiar trousers, whiffling on about keto-diet options and normalising £11 for a slice of salt-baked celeriac.
Fordwich parish council should know that within 20 minutes of alighting the fast train from St Pancras to Canterbury West (one hour!), passing the Goods Shed farmers’ market selling local cheese and ale, then settling in at The Fordwich Arms with a glass of blanc de blanc and a plate of freshly baked fougasse, I was checking property prices. You poor Fordwich bastards. Centuries of remote rural splendour ruined by me ambling about with my labrador, clutching a bag of Cropwell Bishop stilton and looking like a boil-washed Noel Fielding.
But this is what good food does. It moves people to want to move house. Smith, a former Observer young chef of the year, has teamed up with fiancee Tash Norton and ex-Clove Club sommelier Guy Palmer-Brown in taking on a pub, dining room and, notably, capacious beer garden overlooking the River Stour. This garden, which Smith vows will stay dog-friendly, is made for lost summer lunches gone wildly awry. But, in January, we take root in the elegant dining area, separate from the bar, to umm and ahh through a menu which is that peaceable level of challenging, while warmly reassuring at the same time.
Yes, house-cured meats, Maldon rock oysters and local crab. But also plump pheasant dumplings – think big, wobbly, dim sum dumplings, not your nan’s suet chestcloggers – stuffed with Stour valley bird in a vivid, roast onion-flecked broth. Or a parfait of chicken liver with gingerbread and red grape. A pre-lunch amuse-bouche – I don’t hold with the savagery of the modern term “snack” – is a teensy cheese tartlet served in a flip-top box of decorative pebble. I adore that The Fordwich Arms is not afeared to have bold strokes of Michelin-manner whimsy – rare sika venison on kale with plum – and exemplary straightforwardness, too, such as a piece of fresh grilled Kentish mackerel with al dente broccoli and the sharp, sweet prang of pickled shallot.
The Fordwich’s vegetarian option will live on in my heart, or more accurately my phone’s photo library, as a death row lunch that could soften a summary execution. Sweetcorn panisse – thick chips hewn of a stiff, carb-a-licious corn batter that’s alive with tarragon –come perched on a corn chowder with a wobbly confit duck egg yolk.
Why can’t all vegetarian food be like this? I’m a huge fan of the not-killing-stuff option on any menu. I’ve made it a 2018 resolution to wage war on all chefs who offer me a meat-free afterthought of pre-made tagliatelle avec low-excitement mushroom (no porcini, perish the thought of a shiitake – that’s 11 quid, please). Please refer to The Fordwich Arms, where that sweetcorn panisse comes festooned with girolles. My friend Kate cooed through a plate of Lincolnshire lamb, titivated three ways and accompanied by turnip and spinach. We drank a glass of riesling trocken, then some Château De Champ des Treilles.
I am chalking this up as a good first day in a new job. If you go, which you really must (my visit was three weeks after the team opened, so it will only improve), do demand the baked vanilla cheesecake with roasted quince on a layer of sticky gingerbread. Or, if you’re no longer hungry but still greedy, order the pavlova, because it’s very pretty: a soft, sticky, brown sugar meringue on tartish blackberries with yoghurt.
As we settled the bill, they sent chunks of homemade fudge. I ate one and pushed another into my Mulberry Bayswater so it could inevitably clog around my house keys and serve as an aide-memoire as to why I did not need a second glass of bordeaux. Book a table at Dan Smith’s place sooner rather than later. The food scene is coming. I apologise in advance, Fordwich. Your sleepy hollow just got woke.
The Fordwich Arms King Street, Fordwich, near Canterbury, Kent, 01227 710444. Open all week, noon-11pm (10.30pm Sun). About £40 a head, plus drinks and service.
Food 10/10
Atmosphere 8/10
Worth the trek? 10/10
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