When we left London, we promised we’d never be part of the “we hate London now” brigade. We left when we wanted to, rather than waiting until we needed to, and still leap to London’s defence whenever anyone takes a pop at it.
Because London’s great. Of course it is. Best city in the world. If I was to have my time again, and had to choose a city to spend more than two decades in, I wouldn’t hesitate. New York is edgy and cool, and feels pretty much constantly like a film set. Rome is like walking round your very own classical myth, only instead of gorgons and minotaurs you’re bombarded with beautiful pizza and equally beautiful people. But London? London’s special. It’s historic and modern all at the same time. It’s got culture coming out of its Thames-hole, it’s where I met my partner, and it’s where our kids were born. It’s home to the greatest French restaurant in the world, and the greatest Irish pub — that isn’t an Irish pub — outside of Ireland. I love London, and one of the absolute joys of my current life is that despite having left it, I still get to be there loads. I get to have my cake, eat it, and then nip into Bouchon Racine for some snails and the Devonshire for a Guinness in the Green Room.
But it’s not where we live anymore. And sometimes, I’ll go for lunch — or stay — somewhere that makes it abundantly clear that we, the people who have left London behind, are the mega-wise super-geniuses, and that you, the people who’ve stayed, are the fools.
The Yan at Broadrayne is one of those places.
And there’s no shortage of reasons why. The food, as you’d hope, is excellent, from start to finish. The chip shop croquettes are joyous, crispy parcels of haddock and potato, a bit like the M&S fish ’n’ chip bites on crack, if being on crack made things infinitely better rather than desperately worse. I’m not really a fan of tartare sauce, but when the Yan whacks it on a plate with curry sauce, pea relish, and cracklings of crispy potato heaven, I’d bathe in it, marry it, and let it call me Susan, if it so desired.
Their shepherd’s pie — a dish held in such high esteem that they’ve had false-reviews criticising it on TripAdvisor, seemingly from local shepherd’s pie competitors — is so luscious, so succulent, so rich and delicious that I almost had to use the word “unctuous”, even though I swore I’d never be that guy. But it really is: flavours so deep you could drown in them and so utterly warming and delicious that you really wouldn't mind if you were.
The chip shop croquettes are like the M&S fish ’n’ chip bites on crack, if being on crack made things infinitely better rather than desperately worse
Their roasts are spectacular and heartening and gargantuan. Served almost overflowing the edges of a sharing platter, you keep picking up a Yorkshire pudding, or a roast potato, or a spoonful of mash, and finding something extra, something tempting, something titillating that you had no idea was going to be there. And, whether it’s meaty or creamy or vegetabley or cheesy or a combination of all three, it always tastes fantastic.
And the desserts? Well, if all you're after is one of the best sticky toffee puddings you've ever had, the Yan has you covered. But if you're a bit wild, a bit crazy, a bit late 1970s Belushi with your dessert choices, the cookie pie takes pretty much every element of every dessert you've ever loved and sticks it in one magnificent bowl, with stickiness and crunchiness and freshness and lightness all at the same time, all on the same spoon, and then they won't even flinch if you order a boozy affogato as well, because that's as least as much a drink as it is a dessert. This is a restaurant that gets you, as long as you are the sort of person that walks into a country pub ready to fall in love.
And last, but very much not least, the breakfasts are hearty as hell — and even healthy, if that's what floats your boat, although when you're surrounded by this many fells for climbing, you're probably ticking enough healthy boxes. The eggs are freshly laid on site, the bacon sarnie is a freshly baked floury bap overflowing with both streaky and back bacon and Lucia's Coffee + Bakehouse, down the road in Grasmere provides a dark roast that will keep even the most Hackney of Hackney-dwellers happy, plus the bacon focaccia's better than anything you'll find in Dalston, and you won't need to remortgage to afford it.
So yes. The food is fantastic. But, here’s the rub: if you’re currently sitting in SE24 reading this, you might well feel that good food isn’t enough. You’re surrounded by good food; sometimes by great food. And while you can make a pretty compelling argument that a shepherd’s pie which merits industrial sabotage is probably also a shepherd’s pie worth travelling the length of the country for, I don’t want to leave you in any doubt.
And that’s where this phrase comes in: “If you need any more gravy, just shout.”
I’m going to repeat that.
“If you need any more gravy, just shout.”
Listen. I know. Times are tough in the world of hospitality. But gravy’s not what it used to be, by and large in good ways. Where restaurants would once pop down a vat of steaming Bisto and get back to marking up sauvignon blanc by 300 per cent, gravies are now works of days of reducing, of condensing, of emulsifying, of mashing and deglazing. But what that’s inarguably added to the world in terms of depth of flavour, it’s also left an awful lot of people who just really like gravy without anywhere near enough gravy. As the tiny gravy jug industry wins, so the hungry diner loses.
I know that describing a Cumbrian restaurant as generous runs dangerously close to cliché, but when the generosity is this pervasive, and this charming, and this downright wonderful, it would be insane of me to ignore it. Some clichés are lazy, others have earned their right to be etched in stone.
Generosity wouldn’t be worth much if the food wasn’t up to scratch, but when you take The Yan’s level of cooking multiplied by this degree of generosity, it takes you to a really quite spectacular place. It’s there in the portions, it’s there in the service, it’s there in the warmth and the comfort and the blissful haze of over-eating; it’s there in the welcome, it’s there in the lovely rooms they have for you to collapse into post-prandials, and yes, it’s there in that wonderful bloody gravy. However much of it you may find yourself needing.
Broadrayne Farm, Grasmere, Ambleside LA22 9RU, theyan.co.uk
