Today we have the first material for you from the place where we have recently worked 2017/2018 – Beaverbrook Luxury country golf club where we had the opportunity to cooperate with:
Link to personal details: https://beaverbrook.co.uk/cook/
The Dining Room, Beaverbrook, Reigate Road, Surrey KT22 8QX (01372 571300). Meal for two, including drinks and service: £90-£150
This one is going to make some people cross. It doesn’t matter whether the restaurant is a triumph or a disaster; whether trumpets call or raspberries are blown. (Spoiler alert: it’s mostly trumpets.) There are people who will be furious with me for even being here. I think about this as I work my way through the glorious vegetable tempura, a golden confection of crisp filigree and lace. I sigh and press on. I have crispy deep-fried things to eat. I am but a man with appetites. I’ll just have to suck it up.
Folds of toasted nori are filled with a tartare of tuna and topped with a tiny bright green spherification of wasabi
I am having lunch at Beaverbrook, a new country house hotel near Leatherhead in Surrey, in Cherkley Court, once the home of the great press baron Max Aitken, AKA Lord Beaverbrook. All the eager staff here are recognisable by the small silver Spitfire badge they wear, to acknowledge Beaverbrook’s role as Churchill’s minister for aircraft production during the Second World War. Beaverbrook loved a filthy, stinking row; it is fitting that opening a hotel named after him caused one.
In 2009, the Beaverbrook Foundation, which had attempted to open the house to the public, announced it would be sold to make way for the hotel. Cue the mother, father, aunt, uncle and cousin of all legal battles. Local environmental groups, including the Campaign to Protect Rural England, opposed the development, especially the proposed golf course. Obviously, they lost and last year the hotel opened.
We’re not sure whether to eat them or enter them for the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition’: tuna and salmon tacos. Photograph: Sophia Evans for the Observer
First impressions are brutal. There’s a gatehouse at the bottom of the drive, staffed by a man who is about as welcoming as cholera. “Dropping off or picking up?” he barks at our cab. He could have tried looking in the back. And then the long, looping drive through the golf course. I’m with Oscar Wilde on golf – a good walk ruined – but that hardly does justice to the calamity that golf courses wreak on the landscape. They’re a dreary, turfed desert, as visually appealing as a motorway service station lorry park, but with none of the usefulness. They are also designed to exclude everyone who isn’t rich enough to pay for the pleasure of hitting a tiny ball while dressed as a middle manager in the sanitary wear business.
A beautiful basil sorbet under a lemonade foam that fizzed and sparkled and made me want a bucketful.
Soon we will express opinions on this place because we do not agree with the opinion in the article, be up to date!