Worth the drive? A Sunday lunch at the Blind Bull

A Lane Head food report, by Jason & Angela

The Blind Bull quotes Oscar Wilde on its website.

Brownie Heaven quotes Tolkien.

Before we'd even booked a table I had a feeling we were probably going to get on.

Angela and I first discovered the Blind Bull after spotting it in Conde Nast Traveller. What surprised us most was that even people we know around Leek hadn't heard of it.

Perfect.

Those are exactly the sort of places we love discovering.

The drive itself is part of the experience. Forty-two miles through rolling Peak District countryside, dry stone walls, little villages and roads that remind you why this part of the world is so special.

If you're staying at Lane Head Barns, don't think of it as forty-two miles.

Think of it as a beautiful afternoon out with an exceptional lunch waiting at the end.

Forty-two miles of dry stone walls and little villages to get here.

First Impressions

Angela has a wonderfully simple way of judging somewhere before we've even sat down.

"Would I happily get dressed up to come here?"

The answer was an immediate yes.

Relaxed.

Beautiful.

Stylish without trying too hard.

A proper country inn that feels like it has evolved naturally rather than being designed by committee.

Angela has a second test too.

Not the wine list first. The glassware, and what's poured as fizz by the glass.

Here it was Gusbourne.

She loved the glass it came in almost as much as what was in it.

One sip and she was back in a handful of other favourite haunts, the places that get these small things right without making a fuss about it.

Then I spotted the wine list.

Most pubs settle for the usual safe options by the glass.

Pinot Grigio.

Sauvignon Blanc.

Merlot.

White Zinfandel.

Perfectly acceptable.

Perfectly predictable.

The Blind Bull clearly enjoys wine.

We shared a 500ml carafe over lunch. I only had a taste because I was driving, but it was enough to understand why it had been chosen. From memory it was a Portuguese blend, beautifully balanced and quietly confident without dominating the food.

Angela's first comment made me smile.

"It smells Italian."

She loves Italian wines because of that savoury edge and bright acidity they often have.

It wasn't Italian.

But I knew exactly what she meant.

Good conversations about wine are rarely about grape varieties.

They're about how a wine makes you feel.

That small moment told us as much about the restaurant as the menu itself.

A Very Promising Start

We began with two bar snacks.

Buttermilk fried mushrooms with buffalo sauce and Crozier Blue yoghurt.

Alongside homemade focaccia with whipped wild garlic butter.

Buttermilk fried mushrooms with buffalo sauce and Crozier Blue yoghurt, alongside homemade focaccia.

The mushrooms were superb.

Earthy.

Rich.

So full of flavour that I genuinely wondered whether they'd been lightly pickled before frying.

The buffalo sauce brought enough acidity to brighten everything without taking over, while the blue cheese yoghurt quietly held the whole dish together.

Then came the focaccia.

Calling it bread somehow doesn't seem enough.

It was ridiculously light.

Soft.

Airy.

Almost pillow-like.

The whipped wild garlic butter disappeared embarrassingly quickly.

If Lane Head Larder bread reaches this standard one day, I'll be very happy indeed.

Sunday Lunch

This is where I become quietly judgemental.

Not because I'm looking for faults.

Because Sunday lunch is hard.

Really hard.

Cooking six perfect roast dinners at home is one thing.

Cooking a busy dining room full of them is something else entirely.

Beautifully pink, properly rested, and I ate every bit of the fat.

The roast beef was magnificent.

Beautifully pink.

Properly rested.

But it was the fat that really surprised me.

Normally it gets pushed politely to one side.

Not today.

I ate every bit of it.

It was so soft and so packed with flavour it genuinely tasted as though it had spent time in a light brine before roasting.

The roast potatoes?

Not quite as crisp as I'd personally have made them.

But flavour won.

They tasted as though they'd been parboiled in a lightly garlic infused stock before roasting, giving them a depth that I've never quite experienced before.

Fresh horseradish had clearly been grated that morning rather than squeezed from a jar.

As it melted into the gravy it created this wonderfully creamy sauce that had me chasing the last few drops around the plate with complete disregard for table manners.

The Yorkshire pudding had clearly seen plenty of beef dripping.

Exactly as nature intended.

The roasted carrot wasn't simply there because every roast dinner needs a carrot.

It had been treated as a proper dish in its own right.

One small observation.

The food arrived warm rather than piping hot.

Angela and I actually prefer that.

When food isn't scorching hot the flavours seem to become much more pronounced.

My parents, however, belong firmly to Team "food should still be visibly steaming".

Different diners notice different things.

The Cauliflower Cheese

We couldn't resist ordering the cauliflower cheese.

This wasn't simply cauliflower hidden beneath melted Cheddar.

There was a gentle acidity running through the sauce that immediately reminded me of Lancashire or perhaps Cheshire cheese.

It lifted what could easily have become a very rich side dish.

One mouthful in and I was trying to work out exactly what cheeses they'd used.

By the time I'd finished analysing it I'd absent mindedly scraped the last of the sauce from the serving dish.

Then...

Without thinking...

I licked the spoon.

Angela informed me, in the tone only wives seem capable of producing, that civilised people don't do this in restaurants.

I maintain that if a chef cooks something that well, they've only themselves to blame.

Dessert... or perhaps the beginning of another idea

I finished with Lanark Blue, fennel jam and malt vinegar biscuits.

Lanark Blue, fennel jam and malt vinegar biscuits. It stopped the conversation for a minute.

It was one of those dishes that stops the conversation for a minute.

Not because it's complicated.

Because every mouthful gives you something new.

The sweetness of the jam arrives first.

Then the fennel.

Not just that gentle aniseed note, but the warmth you only seem to get once fennel seeds have been toasted.

It's subtle.

But it completely changes the flavour.

As I sat there I started wondering what would happen if you introduced a few mustard seeds, or perhaps a little wholegrain mustard.

Now you've got sweetness.

Gentle liquorice.

Warm toasted notes.

Then savoury mustard quietly appearing underneath.

That's exactly the sort of cooking I love.

Layering flavour rather than simply adding more ingredients.

Before we'd even paid the bill I was already thinking about Lane Head Larder.

Not about copying the dish.

About borrowing the thinking behind it.

Perhaps savoury scones with a little malt vinegar in the dough.

Whipped blue cheese.

Fennel jam.

A scattering of toasted fennel seeds.

Whether the jam goes on first...

I'll leave that argument to someone else.

Why We Write These Journal Articles

People often ask us where we eat.

The truth is, we usually end up talking about places we've returned to again and again.

This Journal isn't really about reviewing restaurants.

It's a reminder to ourselves why we still love food and hospitality after all these years.

We're looking for places where people care.

Where chefs still get excited by flavour.

Where front of house genuinely enjoys looking after people.

Where somebody has thought about the wine list.

Where homemade horseradish still matters.

Where a simple carrot isn't treated as an afterthought.

Where the little details tell you someone has taken pride in what they're doing.

The Blind Bull sent us home with a notebook full of ideas.

The drive through the Peak District was beautiful.

Lunch was memorable.

The conversation all the way home was about food.

About flavour.

About hospitality.

About ideas we'd love to explore ourselves.

For us, that's the sign of somewhere truly special.

As we drove home through the limestone valleys of the Peak District, windows down and still talking about lunch, it struck us that the best afternoons are rarely about just one thing.

Yes, the food was exceptional.

Yes, the wine list had personality.

And yes, I was still wondering exactly what cheeses had found their way into that cauliflower cheese.

But it was the whole experience that stayed with us.

A beautiful drive through some of England's finest countryside.

A dining room full of relaxed conversation.

A kitchen cooking with confidence rather than ego.

And enough little moments of inspiration to have me planning new Lane Head Larder recipes before we'd even reached home.

That's exactly why we started writing these Journal articles.

Not to tell you where to eat.

To remember why we fell in love with hospitality in the first place.

And yes, the views on the drive home weren't bad either.