An eating house of distinction

That may because the owner is “known to us” (not in the Biblical sense, I hasten to add) and that he supplies the Eating In column that graces this page with distinction on alternate weeks.

It is also because we have never had a duff meal there.

Not that we eat there often and certainly not so the staff would instantly recognise us when we walk through the door. But it does seem to be consistently good.

Now I know not everyone in Durham thinks that is the case. Some have suggested the service can be a bit slow and the cooking a bit variable.

Others think it expensive.

But we can only speak as we find and we have always found it agreeable and often nothing less than excellent.

At one time, it was Durham’s “award-winning restaurant”, collecting gongs like a bride showered in confetti. The honours and awards may have dried up as more fashionable and extravagant venues have opened in the city, but Oldfields has continued to plough its singular furrow based upon an enthusiastic commitment to local produce and the revival of traditional British dishes. It is probably more successful than it has ever been, if the evidence of a virtually full house on a Tuesday evening in mid-November (typically a quiet time in the restaurant year) is anything to go by.

Outwardly, not a great deal has changed since it first opened. There’s a slightly grand and formal restaurant on the first floor and the more relaxed brasserie atmosphere downstairs. A long bar with racked wines behind is the focal point. Tables and chairs are arranged in a cosy if not too-tightly-packed fashion, many with good peoplewatching positions overlooking Claypath.

There are two menus – a lunch and early bird selection (until 7pm Sunday-Friday and 6pm on Saturday) which costs a measily £10 for two courses and £12.95 for three, and an a la carte available every evening after 6pm.

What is most striking about both menus is the presence of dishes which a few years ago would have had most foodies heading swiftly for the exit.

Pan Haggerty, clapshot, pressed jellied ham and piccalilli, rabbit casserole and Blind Scouse are the sort of dishes our mothers and grandmothers made. It’s not nursery food exactly, but it is redolent of the past, a past where British dishes made the most of what was available, a time before supermarkets brought us the food of the worlds and turned our attention from the excellence of our own culinary traditions.

The local provenance is flagged up but not slavishly; the impression given is that ingredients are sourced locally if they are high quality, and certainly not regardless of whether they are any good.

It wasn’t clear where the prawns in Sylvia’s prawn cocktail (£6.50) came from but they were superb quality and coated in a very good Marie Rose sauce (a touch of tomato ketchup is the magic ingredient, apparently).

My leek and potato soup (£4.75) was made with an authentic stock and lightly creamed – there was still some texture left – and well seasoned.

It came with very fresh bread – from a bakery on Tyneside if we recall correctly.

Sylvia, who perhaps was struggling to slip back into a 1950s British culinary mindset, enjoyed a piece of grilled free-range chicken (tender, juicy, £14,50) and some stonkingly-good thick-cut chips, tomato, mushrooms and watercress.

I chose the rose veal (£15.50), cooked in the style of a blanquette of veal with a garlic, white and cream sauce. The veal comes from Walworth, near Darlington, where dairy farmer John Archer has been finding a good use for his bull calves, raising them humanely until slaughter at about seven months old.

The paleness and structure of the dish was a little unattractive but you have to forget arty-farty ideas of pictures on a plate when eating stew. The taste was pure comfort food; the flaking, slightly gelatinous texture of the meat, infused with the sauce, made for mouthfuls of satisfying, almost sticky-ish, garlic and mildly beefy flavour. If you are still a bit doubtful about eating veal, this is the dish to convince you.

The stew rested on a bed of new potatoes and I had a side dish of fresh seasonal greens (£2.50) to go with it.

Sylvia was replete and so was I in truth, but I couldn’t resist the bread and butter pudding (£6) served with custard. The twist to this was the inclusion of a little marmalade (from Just William hedgerow products, Gilling West, North Yorkshire) which gave it a bitter edge. Despite the beautiful crunchy-soft more-ishness of the dish I could not quite finish it.

Our bill, excluding drinks, was £56, including the automatic service charge of 12.5 per cent (which can be deducted if you don’t think the service up to scratch). I’m not a fan of this system, but it is increasingly becoming the norm. We certainly didn’t begrudge it in this case for youthful but savvy attentiveness.