12-05-2025
William Sitwell reviews Harry's, Camber: ‘A menu that matches the spirit of the place'
Of course, I was invigorated by the sight of the sea, what seemed a vast and empty stretch of water, and an equal expanse of beach, with no one in sight but a couple of dog walkers. And there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Fortunately the car parks were also empty because, given they are also enormous, it suggests this place becomes less of a picnic mid-summer; a sort of Saturday night peak-time ITV1 grockle-fest.
But my spirits soared further when I entered The Gallivant, just opposite one of those car parks by Camber Sands, near Rye, in East Sussex. Because it is nothing less than a visionary's accomplishment. What could be a single-storey motel by a busy road is a stylish retreat so well designed and propped that you want to take every idea, every cushion, book, chessboard and sconce home. Along with the staff, who usher you in offering beach towels, boots and water bottles.
And now this little paradise has a great chef in its midst. The restaurant is called Harry's, named not after the chef, Matthew Harris, but owner Harry Cragoe.
Harris is one half of a culinary sibling duo, his brother being Henry, of celebrated Bouchon Racine fame. And while Henry had classic chef itchy feet syndrome, also known as restaurateuritis, Matthew fetched up at London's Bibendum about a hundred years ago and stayed there until he felt it was time to cook in a nice place by the sea.
Where he reigns over breakfast too, which I liked almost more than dinner; so cute is the array of granola, cured hams, cheeses and a Bloody Mary 'recovery station'.
The menu is sort of French by way of Kent; French words like 'terrine de campagne', 'courchamps', 'montpellier' and 'remoulade' being in the mix with 'Salt Marsh Barnsley chop' and 'wild garlic'. And very gently reassuring it is too, a menu, indeed, that matches the spirit of the place: calm and restorative.
My hot date Nima ('I've not been called that since 1972'), a beloved family friend, enjoyed her terrine, the rustic kind embedded with pistachios, though, she said, it wasn't groundbreaking. And I, similarly, nestled into a familiar Harris brothers starter of eel with celeriac and egg – gentle flavours, the sensible foundations of a house rather than its grand façade.
Next I ate a bit of sheep like the ones I'd spotted grazing as I travelled from the station, the Barnsley chop, slow-braised and glistening, sweet but robust. It came with half a baby gem, fresh from the griddle. I never quite know how chefs do that with lettuce, try it at home and it turns to mush, a bit like my attempts at taramasalata which taste like cat food.
Nima's main was veal, another decent plate, tender meat, charred at the edges and under a verdant, generous pour of montpellier butter. We shared buttery spinach and fries, all on point and elegantly served on handsome plates painted with an 'H', which I suppose, stops you pinching them, unless your name is Harry or Helga or Harvinder.
Vanilla ice cream for pud came with room temperature chocolate sauce, which I think should be hot. But then it's a bit like a reverse of the braised lettuce thing: I can make hot chocolate sauce at home, but no restaurant can, ever.
In the choppy waters of modern hospitality, as vessels smash against the rocks, The Gallivant sails a smooth and calm path – now resolutely, with a chef on board who doesn't want to change the world but instead reliably helps the boat to keep on chugging along very nicely.
