The Bridge Arms, Canterbury

It's not that I begrudge Cornwall, or Lancashire, or Kent, or any other part of the country at least a 2 hour journey from my house, their world-class lineup of restaurants. Honestly, I'm happy for them - I love to eat in these places, and I'm happy to travel to be able to do so. It's just there's a part of me increasingly convinced that there's some kind of elaborate conspiracy at work that puts the very best restaurants in the country about as far as possible from my house, while equally anywhere walkable from my front door in Battersea (Mien Tay excepted) has some kind of clandestine mandate to be as mediocre as possible.

The last three trips to Kent, for example, trips that have taken at least 2 hours door to door, sometimes even more, have now been (spoiler alert, sorry) to solid 10/10 rated establishments. And I'm not expecting to be tripping over that kind of quality within my own postcode but could not just one of the hundred or so pubs in SW11 find some kind of ambition greater than serving chicken tenders and bean burgers next to pints of Camden Hells? I don't need them all to grow a pair, I can be realistic. Just one. Please.

So yes, inevitably, the Bridge Arms near Canterbury, run as it is by the Fordwich Arms team, is yet another crushingly wonderful gastropub, serving imaginative, beautiful yet always accessible food, requiring me to spend half a day on the stopper service from London Victoria to reach. And just thinking about the smug faces of Canterbury residents, knowing they live close enough to the place to call it their local, makes my blood boil.

Firstly, the bread. Everything bread (or pastry) related was impeccable, starting with this kind of herb-glazed focaccia loaf with lovely soft salty butter. If this was served as the house offering in a 3* place in Paris, you'd still be impressed, never mind from a country pub in the South East of England.

Buttermilk fried chicken were superbly done, a greaseless crust containing soft, yielding flesh. Also the tandoori mayonnaise was almost like soft butter, with a nice amount of salt and spice.

Flatbread was another masterclass in baking, topped with lardo, parmesan and grilled onions. An irresistible combination of carbs, fats and vegetation, it came with that unmistakable faint whiff of real charcoal, a detail that not many places bother to stretch to. The results, though, are always worth the effort.

Even padron peppers, a dish ostensibly so simple even I can pull it off to reasonable effect, conspired to somehow be the finest examples I can remember eating, great big things packed full of dense, salty flavour and absolutely impossible not to polish off immediately.

Those, you may have noticed, were just the snacks. We hadn't even got to the starters yet and already we were planning our next visit to try the monkfish dumplings and whipped cod's roe we'd annoyingly (but probably sensibly) decided not to add to the order. This work of modern art was chicken liver parfait with pickled pear and ice wine jelly, a completely perfect dish in of itself but served with a 'brioche' so buttery and crunchy it was basically a pastry. Try and imagine the best croissant of your life, shaped like a tall bread roll.

Jerusalem artichoke tart with egg yolk and Westcombe cheddar, also essentially perfect, looking like something you could hang on a wall and containing all the vibrancy and colour of the finest early spring ingredients. The Bridge can do straightforward when they want to, but are equally happy to pull out all the stops to create something so striking it makes you gasp.

Scallop came presented in its own shell, the theatre of opening it up revealing another achingly beautiful arrangement of pickled onion, beetroot and herb-butter-crusted seafood.

None of the mains were any less impressive. Mangalitsa pork chop, ever-so-slightly pink and brilliantly textured, was served with a celeriac purée, a herb-crusted stick of salsify, a little bit of charred hispi cabbage, and a dainty sausage roll of what they called "maple bacon", a wonderful thing indeed.

Rack of lamb, themselves pink and tender, came with a portion of unbelievably good glazed breast, a tantalising tease of creamed potato (enough to make us curse we hadn't ordered more as a side) and a little dollop of smoked anchovy mayonnaise. And obviously, it was brilliant.

But the most stunning dish out of a succession of some of the best things any of us had eaten all year, was this huge trunk of new season asparagus, genuinely so good it made you wonder if any other asparagus is fit to use the same name, with blue foot mushroom and another dollop of that potato pureé, topped with a dollop of sharp, savoury housemade ricotta. For as long as the asparagus season lasts, this is a must-order dish, made up of ingredients that come along barely a few times in a lifetime.

Sides of neat parcels of hispi cabbage drenched in smoked tarragon butter were yet more evidence that this is a kitchen at the top of its game, similarly hand cut chips which came arranged in a ramekin, as if huddled up for warmth.

I hardly need to go on, do I? I didn't try the lemon meringue pie or chocolate mousse with peanuts and snickers ice cream, but I did take photos of them and they're hardly likely to be horrible are they. And though there's probably an argument to be made that my baked pistachio cheesecake could have probably survived without the rhubarb sorbet element, it's not something that's likely to drop them any points.

The bill (not pictured, sorry, I was having too much fun) came to £260 for 3, and if you think that sounds like an utter bargain for that amount of food of that quality, it's worth pointing out that one of our party, a designated driver (because how else were we supposed to get there, bloody helicopter?) wasn't drinking. So yes, this is not a cheap place to eat, but I imagine you could probably go a bit easier on the wine (and digestifs in the sunny garden after) if you wanted to save a few quid. I bet you'd regret it if you did, though.

And that's because the Bridge Arms is a very special destination indeed, soon to become one of the hottest tickets in the South East (if it isn't already; we ourselves had to book 2 months in advance), and if you're lucky enough to eat there there's no reason why you wouldn't just order as much of their menus as you can possibly cope with, safe in the knowledge that every single last element of it will turn out to be exquisite. You will have the time of your life. Just make sure that includes the bread, and if the time is right, that game-changing asparagus. You can thank me later.

10/10

Not an invite, but we had a round of champagne thrown in (thanks Dan and team).

The Fordwich Arms, Canterbury

In common with most people with a regular exposure to it, I have a love-hate relationship with our nation's rail network. I love nothing more than jumping on an intercity of a weekend and travelling up North, sailing over a Victorian viaduct in a single-carriage Pacer on the way to an undiscovered part of the country and visiting an idyllic country gastropub. I even quite enjoy the inevitable 3 hours at a rain-battered station in a field for the one train a day back to London; it's all part of the adventure.

Unfortunately, I also have to commute, so I see our overstretched, overpriced transport system at its worst as well. And so although I do enjoy travelling by train, it helps to keep a certain reserve of stoicism to hand for when events, to put it politely, go tits up. And so it was on Saturday on the 1h45m journey from Charing Cross to Sturry where our 8-car Southeastern train had not a single functioning toilet, something that became a rather more pressing issue once we'd polished off the bottle of cava we'd brought along for the ride. We hopped painfully into the Fordwich Arms with mere moments to spare.

You'll be pleased to hear, then, that lunch at this handsome 1920s brick building is absolutely worth any amount of pain to get there. From start to finish, from the first nibble of cruditées to the final flourish of dessert, this is a restaurant that beams with energy and talent, and with the generosity of spirit to serve food that wouldn't be in the least out of place in the most heavily gilded and tableclothed temples of fine dining at prices that make you seriously worry for the future legitimacy of the business.

But let's leave the number-crunching to them; we're here to enjoy ourselves. Like lots of great restaurants, the menu reads so well it's almost impossible to make a sensible decision about what to order, so you'll probably end up doing what we did and consuming one of everything from the snack menu. Oysters arrived first, lean and cool and with a good chunky mignonette.

Foie gras doughnuts, fresh from the oven, exploded into a kind of warm foie bisque in the mouth, an absolutely heavenly experience.

These pretty things contained a silky-smooth tarama, a slice of pickle, and were topped with Caviar farmed from British sturgeon so you can imagine how completely addictive they were. I think given a table full of these or the foie gras dumplings I don't think I could have stopped until I'd put myself in hospital.

More tarama - or rather oak-smoked cod's roe - came with a selection of lively, and artfully arranged, garden vegetables. Though the roe was lovely - perfectly seasoned and full of seafood flavour - the real stars of this dish were the veg, which somehow tasted better than any radish, carrot and endive I've had the pleasure of trying in a long while.

Westcombe Cheddar tartlets had that same perfect temperature of the foie - warm, but not piping hot, and dissolved in the mouth into a divine cheesey soup. And again, left alone in a room full of these I would not have emerged with a fully functioning set of organs.

We were also brought a mini selection of house-cured meats, which could easily hold up against any top-quality Italian produce you could name.

By this point, it was abundently clear we were in safe hands, and we would be able to relax and let the rest of the afternoon sail by in serene, Sancerre-soaked bliss. A starter of chicken, artichoke and goat's curd was a stunning thing, meaty and fresh, smooth and crunchy in all the right places and presented with an artist's eye.

Confit potato didn't quite live up to the standards set by the Quality Chop House version - what on God's green earth would? - but did still impress with a clever light buttermilk dressing and some nice smoky charred spring onion.

Crab with pickled cucumber and sea herbs was essentially faultless - just the right amount of brown meat to enrich the white, seasoned well and topped with salty seaside greens, it was as elegant as it was rewarding.

Mains continued the theme. Dexter beef, tender and medium-rare and with a subtle aged flavour that added interest without overwhelming funkiness, came with sticks of celeriac and gravy- (sorry, "beef jus"-) soaked spinach.

And suckling pig had some pieces of belly presented with puréed carrot and prune, whilst in a separate copper pan two pieces of unbelievably lovely somethingorother, skin as delicate as rice paper, flesh inside soft and powerfully flavoured, sat on a bed of smoked hay. It was enough to send us all giddy.

Desserts I can only assume tasted as good as they look from my photos, because I'm afraid we were all a bit hysterical by this point, from the sheer overwhelming quality of the food mainly but, yes, also more than a little drunk. I seem to remember my brioche being soaked in something boozy, but that could just as well have been me. And I'm pretty sure the "Fordwich snickers" (lower case 's', in case the Mars lawyers start taking notice) went down well too, with its irresistable combination of caramel, chocolate and praline.

Before we rolled out into the crisp Kentish air, an insanely reasonable £87/head lighter each for what had been by anyone's standards a magnificent display of Modern British sourcing and technique, I couldn't resist asking head chef Dan Smith, who had emerged briefly from the kitchen, how he manages to achieve all these frills and fireworks at such relatively low price points. It seems largely to be a concession to grumpy locals who flooded Tripadvisor with comments in the vein of "what happened to my £9.50 roast" and "no more jacket potatoes, just overpriced fancy dinner". It's difficult enough launching a new restaurant these days, with food inflation and staffing shortages to deal with, but to be risking all that only to find yourself fighting to convince the very people you need to keep your business afloat must have been particularly depressing.

Look, I love an unreconstructed spit-and-sawdust pub every bit as much I'm sure as your average Fordwich local. I can particularly recommend the lovely Unicorn, 5 min from Canterbury West station, for a quick pint of Kentish Pip cider while you're waiting for the convenience(s)-free train back to London. Fordwich Arms has a bar area, and nice open log fires and a beer garden but no, it's not serving fish and chips and burgers and bloody burritos because it's not a "normal" pub - it's unashamedly and undeniably a fine dining pub, and that every boozer in Britain has to do exactly the same thing and please exactly the same set of people is neither practical nor desirable.

So with any luck over time the Kentish locals will realise what an utter gem they have on their doorstep and will realise they can still go a thousand other places for their sub-£10 roasts and salt and vinegar crisps if that's what they want. What's so much rarer is food as remarkable as served at the Fordwich Arms, easily one of the most exciting new openings of the last few years and, for more regular readers of this blog, yet another reason to get on the train from London. I hope yours has toilets.

9/10

The Corner House, Canterbury

I've said before on this blog that the real measure of a healthy dining scene isn't what's going on in the multi Michelin-starred high-falutin' fine dining establishments, but instead what you get for £30-40/head with a glass or two of wine. Don't get me wrong, I love places like Moor Hall, and L'Enclume, and the Fat Duck, of course I do - you'd have to be missing a soul not to have the time of your life eating dinner there, assuming you can stomach the bill - but they exist in their own international jet set tier of restaurants, separate and apart from anywhere you'd just pop into of a cold Tuesday night because you didn't fancy cooking.

And the sad reality is, if you do look at the vast majority of high streets in towns and cities up and down the country, it's still grim pickings for the food-lover. Cookie-cutter Italians like Ask, Zizzi or Prezzo dominate, with fried chicken shops and Nando's taking up whatever grade A spaces are left. Some days, and in some towns, it seems we are further away than ever from having a healthy independent food scene and nothing can save us from the relentless March of the Chains.

So what can we, who care about eating out and eating well, do about all of this? Only to find your precious local gastropub or bistro, with its seasonal menu cooked by proper chefs who get up early to prep all the fresh ingredients themselves, and where it's all served by people who love what they do, and you give them your custom. And if you happen to find yourself in Kent, and need some inspiration for how to find such a place, well let me tell you about the Corner House in Canterbury.

The menu at the Corner House is familiar and comforting as a hug from an old friend. This is, of course, exactly how it should be - you can't win hearts and minds by being stubborn when it comes to traditional gastropub favourites. So there's pork scratchings and sausage rolls, roast sirloin and Yorkshire puddings. There's triple-cooked chips, and braised shoulder of lamb for two. There is, in short, something for everyone, and judging by the happy mix of young and old we sat with on Sunday, they know their audience well.

Starters all looked worth ordering, but after much deliberation we ended up with chicken liver parfait (usually a good litmus test of a kitchen) and venison carpaccio. The venison had a good gamey flavour, was seasoned well, and was dotted with an intelligent selection of seasonal bits and pieces, including parsnip "fries" and puréed beetroot. It brought to mind a similar dish made up in Lancashire at the Parkers Arms, and as the Parkers is one of the very best restaurants in the country, that's about as big a compliment as I can pay.

The parfait, sweet and fluffy with a luxurious meaty flavour, came topped with an interesting port jelly, which dissolved in the mouth and complimented the liver perfectly. My friend, a chef, wants it to be known that she thought the parfait was a bit too sweet, but I didn't at all and I'm writing the review so there.

The main course presented a dilemma. Ordinarily, custom on these review trips would dictate that in order to sample as much of the menu as possible, I and my dining companion would choose different dishes for each course. Unfortunately, the existence of a game suet pudding on the menu provoked a short but... intense discussion on the subject of who should do the right thing and order the cod, or polenta, or beef, or something I mean come on, and with neither side being willing to compromise (I mean it's not like she should be grateful for a free weekend trip to Canterbury but you'd think it might have registered as a factor) we ended up with a suet pudding each. Fortunately, they were pretty much perfect - stuffed full of pigeon, pheasant and partridge with a glossy game jus, and extremely impressive work with the suet. Oh, and lovely buttery mash to go with it, too.

Someone really knows their pastry at the Corner House, because the desserts conspired to be even more impressive than the savouries. Upside down pear & ginger cake (beautifully balanced sweetness and fruit flavour) came with a honeycomb ice cream so rich it had somehow developed tones of woodsmoke alongside the caramel.

And tonka bean creme brulee had a great texture contrast between the crunch of the sugar glaze and a supremely clean, smooth custard, topped with some chunks of delicate poached pear. Yes, perhaps each of the desserts could have done with one fewer flourish amongst the toppings, but these were still superb examples of the pastry section's craft. Seriously impressive stuff.

This being an invite, we didn't see a bill but doing a quick bit of maths now I don't think the total (with a bottle of wine and a gin & tonic) would have pushed much north of £40/head, which puts it firmly in that category of Good Local Restaurant I mentioned earlier. We need as many places like this as possible, on high streets up and down the country, and we need people to know about them and spend their money at them, to save Britain from Chain Hell. One day every small town could have a Corner House, and wouldn't that be wonderful?

8/10

I was invited to the Corner House, and didn't see a bill. Immaculately specced rooms upstairs start at £79/night, which seems like a bargain to me. Also Canterbury is achingly pretty, and well worth a trip.