13-03-2025
William Sitwell reviews The Peacock Inn, Chelsworth: ‘The finest pie I can remember eating'
The Peacock stands in the centre of the ancient village of Chelsworth in Suffolk. It's a 14th-century inn by the water meadows of the River Brett, recently rescued from oblivion, tenderly refurbished and, frankly, if the place only served one ale and some pork scratchings, the new owner should get a gong for his benevolence.
Actually it ought to be a duty of newly moneyed locals to rescue pubs. Councils should mandate that if you want to build a swimming pool complex for the cost of an average house you need to invest in the local boozer.
The cultural benefits are obvious and, as with the Peacock, it should be law that you name a pie after the local squire.
Hence the shin of Herefordshire beef stewed for hours in Suffolk ale, housed in a beef fat pastry and served with Bordelaise sauce and pomme purée. And the 'Sir Gerald's pie' was staggeringly good, literally the finest pie I can remember eating.
Its size was perfect, a neat, golden-topped number, not stupidly big, whose crust was firm but flaky and buttery to taste, and whose inner works were a rich hymn to the cow. The mash was smooth, topped with some truffle and with a decent dark sauce. It was a magnificent centrepiece whose conception and presentation should act as a style guide for everything else.
Because the chef, who has great talent, ought to rein in his fine dining instincts to suit the surroundings. By which I mean, for example, just call those pie accompaniments mash and gravy, plate some of the other stuff with some rural earthiness and hold back on the flouncy menu writing.
My pal's main course of roast partridge was a dish of ingredients stripped of their natural look and presented as blobs around the plate. No sprouts, but three leaves (tops), a rectangle of medlar jelly and a sliver of anaemic-looking bird made paler by a strip of translucent lardo laid on top. I had a taste and, with some Puy lentils hiding under the partridge, it was fabulous, but it seemed ashamed of its origins.
Before all that, snacks of Scotch egg and wild mushroom croquette, both very tasty, were more in keeping, but they threw in some other freebies, including something in a half-moon cracker sandwich with a dusting of green pine essence on a bed of pine sprigs.
Next were starters of sea bream ceviche, for me, a beautifully presented roundel of creamy fish under a linseed cracker that, cleverly, looked like fish skin. And for her, a raviolo, well made, cooked just right and topped with shavings of truffle.
After the pie and partridge, shared pud was a perfectly smooth and round chocolate mousse with a chocolate rippled biscuit on top, which also jarred with the aesthetics of the inn, which is all beams, a newly laid floor of York stone and lots of gently lit corners and cubby holes.
The manager adds to the place's bid for Michelin attention as he bounds about. He shimmers from the bar, heralding our bottle of aligoté (that lesser known white Burgundy which, when on song, can be a revelation) and virtually pirouettes before the table when he arrives with Sir Gerald's pie.
I wonder how the burly farmer deals with him at the bar. 'Pint of ale, please.' 'Oh indeed Sir, and here before you I present a frothing tankard of the aforementioned beverage. And is there anything else I can provide you with?'
Still, as I say, the food is fab, great value and the place is busy. This old inn has a joyous lease of life redolent of its name in all its raucous posturing plumage.
