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Chester Racecourse, which first staged a race in 1539, is the oldest in Britain. It is also the fourth most popular. It is also an absolutely cracking little business. Every year crowds break previous records and profits soar. Money seems to pour in faster and faster. It's almost embarrassing. So what to do with all this cash? If it doesn't find an outlet, the little racecourse might just burst under the strain! Well one thing you can do is open a restaurant. Make it high-end: find a top restaurateur to run it for you and what do you know, your racecourse becomes an all-year attraction!
The restaurant occupies a long room at the top of the grandstand. One whole side is glazed to provide an uninterrupted outlook of the Roodee and the Welsh hills beyond. The other side is mostly occupied by a cocktail bar. Tables are round, dressed with cream linen and surrounded by grey swivelling chairs. It is calm. One is looked after. Twosomes sit, not facing each other but at ninety degrees, sharing the view.
The menu is a simple affair, presented on a single, large card. On the back is the wine list, the ordinary wine list. The 'connoisseur's wine list' is separate, encased in antique brass. Pick it up first and get a fright - prices start at £40. The menu is by Paul Heathcote and has the hallmarks of a Heathcote menu: locally sourced produce, simply prepared and intelligently combined. It seems to fit the bill perfectly. Chester, not Chelsea. Racing, not tennis.
Starters are generous, hearty even. A crab risotto with a wafer of parmesan crackling was for all its humble provenance surprisingly rich, almost smoky. Pea soup was sweet and thick, while the contrasting citric notes of a sorrel foam pleased the palate perhaps more than the eye. We washed this down with a small carafe of deliciously delicate Domaine de Maubet white from the Cotes de Gascogne.
Tracey's ribeye steak came with a pepper sauce and took me back twenty years. Chips were almost unfeasibly light and clean tasting. My confit lamb was a triumph; a puck of ovine goodness, steeped in the salt of an Anglesey marsh. A ragout of tomatoes from Southport supported it marvellously. We'd ordered sides but didn't need them. A doggy bag was forthcoming.
The desserts only marginally failed to match the heights of the main course. Pear tart with its light base and pistachio ice cream accompaniment was a lush reminder of just how good this fruit can be. Chocolate sticky toffee pudding was powerfully ginger and, though it had no right to work, was memorable. Dessert wines are recommended individually for each pudding. Mighty Leaf teas are served in a no-nonsense cast iron teapot and fudge rounds off the meal.
It seems to me that almost every restaurant we visit, every meal we eat, is marred by at least one bad mistake - a forgotten side dish, a miscooked piece of meat, long delays. And rather than become inured to this, we become ever more sensitive. Errorphobic, cock-up averse. Here nothing went wrong. Service was unfussy, friendly and efficient. The courses were paced just right. And, of course, the food was excellent.
I should say that we ate on a non-race day. A select few - competition for tables will be fierce - will experience 1539 on race days. Their experience may be different. But somehow I don't think they will be disappointed.
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