Montagu’s Mews at The Royal Crescent Hotel & Spa, Bath

“There’s a kind of hush all over the world, tonight…”

Well yes, of course there is… because we’re at a table on the Royal Crescent Hotel and Spa’s brand new heated, covered terrace overlooking the gorgeous garden; if you can’t feel at peace here, you’re unlikely to feel at peace pretty much anywhere else. The unique, sweetly earthy fug that punctuates the end of one of the first days of summer is hanging in the air; beautiful birds are skittering in the trees, and pretty cats skitter around in the bushes. It’s calm, and charming, and extravagantly grand in an understated way.

One could say, I guess, that that last sentence summarises the RCH USP overall – and, this: “rich in fascinating history and cultural heritage, renowned across the globe for iconic architectural status and subtly exuding the kind of discreetly luxurious red carpet glamour rarely experienced outside of a handful of London’s grand old dames of the 5-star hotel scene” (I couldn’t have put it better myself, so I didn’t try to).

Recently, however, the RCH has upped its enviable reputation as modern oasis of luxury to another level by treating the former (slightly dour) Dower House restaurant and adjacent bar to an extensive style overhaul that cleverly remains true to the hotel’s storied heritage and elegantly refined aesthetic while putting a distinctive, subtly glam spring in this grand old dame’s step; ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on Montagu’s Mews, named after Elizabeth Montagu, the original (and fascinating) resident of number 16 Royal Crescent. Within a host of other interests and achievements, Ms Montagu was a celebrated hostess and salonière; there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that she would adore her old home’s new look, purpose and overall vibe.

But would the woman who, in 1775, invited her tenants to dine with her and noted, in a letter to one of her many friends, that she/her kitchen “provided a veritable feast of sirloins of beef, legs of mutton, loins of veal, chickens, ducks and green geese, with ham, pigeon pye, tarts and custard”, approve of RC hotel Head Chef Martin Blake’s menus? I can’t really see who wouldn’t. I can’t see who wouldn’t find something on the food-front array that doesn’t suit their appetite, or mood, or budget either; in the mood for a sandwich, or a sharing plate? Go Bar and Terrace Menu. Afternoon tea? Oh, but of course! Your dinner, your way? You’re going A la Carte, then. But if you’d prefer Martin and his team to present you with your dinner His way, please, please take the Tasting Menu route; that’s what we did, sitting on that gorgeous heated terrace, on that gorgeous summer evening.

By way of an overture, a trio of canapés involving various combinations of Bath Blue and Parmesan cheeses, and tiny, featherlight sable biscuits, and avocado mousse, and beetroot gel, and mild, sweet borage – each of which looked as though they’ve been made by angels, and every little mouthful fit to be food for the gods – were presented to us by elegantly efficient, friendly people who are masters of the art of elegantly efficient, friendly service. Then came bread, but not bread as you know it: soft, fluffy Shokupan served with soft, fluffy smoked cod roe mousse, topped with incandescent pearls of golden orange caviar. Both little courses are breathtakingly beautiful to behold; both little courses carry beautifully-balanced nudges and twitches of flavour that make your soul, heart and tastebuds sing. And then, the symphony itself opened…

Somewhere deep in my foodie consciousness, I know that I should love Steak Tartare; every foodie does… don’t they? No, not I. I’ve never really got to grips with the time-honoured (but, to my mind, weird) combination of raw, heavily seasoned meat laden with shouty capers and topped with raw egg. Okay, I know it’s a classic dish, and I know it’s sophisticated; I know all that stuff. But I also know that, in the wrong hands, Steak Tartare can taste like some weird kind of hangover cure that sits alongside Sally (Cabaret) Bowles’ beloved (but vile) Prairie Oysters, or Kingsley Amis’ Polish Bison in the canon of “things I will never eat/drink in order to join in the parade of the Emperor’s New Clothes – until now.

Martin Blake’s Beef Tartar is an entirely different take on one of France’s most (in)famous signature dishes. Here, we have neat cubes of Dry Aged Herefordshire Beef topped with a smooth, rich Bath Ale Hollandaise and lightened with citrussy/sweet IP8 vinegar, no raw egg or heavy-handed, vinegary pickles to be found, just super-smooth, super-fresh, super-umami joy, joy, joy. And while I had no idea what I wanted to eat after that, Martin did: behold the shimmering, iridescent Cornish cod, the creamy delicacy of the hero fish contrasted with fat, briny mussels and a luxurious, mellow shellfish dressing (almost a bisque, really) offering temperate unity between the two superstars of the sea. After that…

Really – after all that? Yes, because this is, remember, a Tasting Menu. If you really need to be prosaic about it, you could call the array a selection of small plates. But where small plate arrays usually go horribly, horribly wrong due to either your own misguided choice of dishes or – more likely – the prosaic, commercial selection of a dining ‘style’ that’s become, in the UK, a ‘small plate’ peddler’s bandwagon, a Tasting Menu brings the concept back to what taste is all about: balance, and harmony, and skill, and intelligent concepts, and surprise, and the deeply evocative thrill of flavours that tease all your senses at once – and all that and more is where Martin Blake’s forte lies.

So yes, there was an ‘after all that’: there was sweet, tender poussin teamed with a fat spear of Wye Valley asparagus with an almond pesto dotted hither and thither and a deeply flavoursome chicken jus rôti adding deeply umami undertones without detracting from the overall delicacy of the dish.

There was a pre-dessert (well hello RC Head Pastry Chef Michael ‘Mikey’ Topp), the fascinating title ‘Douglas Fir’ belying an even more fascinating combination bringing the unique, menthol-tinged scent (and taste! Who knew?) of a Christmas tree together with fresh Russet Apple, nutty burnt butter and a bracing blast of sorbet in an avocado-shaped dish of sweetly savoury deep forest-tinged magic. And after all that yet again there was dessert ‘proper’: rhubarb complemented by fruity Piqual olive oil (trust me: this works) and hints of warm vanilla, the whole shebang lifting the familiar flavours of Yorkshire’s finest forced stalks up, up and away from rhubarb as you’ve ever tasted it before.

And now, I have to quote myself again: “Martin Blake is a Master of the Art of technique, presentation and inspiration that cleverly avoids that over-cheffy habit of straying away from the realms of common sense. Like Montagu’s Mews itself, his menus gently challenge your perceptions of familiarity but make you feel right at home…”

An evening at Montagu’s Mews at the Royal Crescent Hotel and Spa gives you the kind of hush that roars loud in your sensory memory for a very long time to come.