I’m sat in a Costa just outside Doncaster writing this, because my life is one long cavalcade of glamour. I’m also nursing a – if you’ll excuse my French – Four Fucking Pounds Forty Pence Fucking Flat White. The card machine even had the temerity to ask if I’d like to add a charitable donation to as I paid. Indeed I would – I’d like to donate approximately half of that back to myself, so I don’t feel like the victim of violent financial assault by a service station, but then I guess charity really doesn’t begin at home any more, unless you live in Mar-A-Lago.

It did make me think a little about how we end up in the places we do. In this case, it’s just a pit stop between Hull and Sheffield where I’m gigging this evening, before I pull into a state of the art studio – ok, lay-by – to do a little radio punditry beforehand. So, at least I have enough work to pay for a coffee that really seems to be putting the gold in ‘Gold Blend.’ Where my wife might disagree is that we have enough money for me to pop into the Michelin starred Pipe and Glass Inn in South Dalton for lunch. Admittedly it was a tad over £4.40, but it only felt like I’d been beaten up by a root vegetable, more of which later.

That I was there at all was a combination of luck, Google, and a recommendation for The Star up the road which was sadly fully booked. In my defence, I didn’t realise it had a Michelin star when I booked it (honest!) I did feel slightly guilty about my ignorance when confronted by the number of framed articles lauding chef/patron James Mackenzie on the wall outside the gents, but as a comedian – who am I to criticise a little self-aggrandisement?

And there is a great deal here to aggrand… A picture-perfect location in the middle of the sort of fields Americans think make up 98% of England (the other 2% are fundamentalist Islamic enclaves,) a warm welcome at the door and the kind of service that makes you want to pay them extra for babysitting. Not to mention a menu you want to order in its entirety. Which is where maybe I went a little wrong. Having been given a free taste of a Yorkshire blonde ale (pleasant/3.9%/I was driving,) I took my pint and sat down in the preposterously cosy bar (the restaurant was, not surprisingly, fully booked,) and proceeded to order the potted pork. Like the beer, this was perfectly good, but just left me feeling a little…wanting. Spread on a spelt toast, I did feel a stronger hand with the seasoning would have come in handy – but then I put one of the accompanying pieces of puffed crackling on top and suddenly it all made sense.

I don’t wish to dismiss what was a fine starter – especially not since a quick search has just informed me it is one of the chef’s signature dishes – it’s just in retrospect, there were oysters, and scallops, and the kind of prawn cocktail that very nearly led to a raid on a nearby table. And more importantly, there was my main course. I am not usually the man to go to for the vegetarian option, but one of the nicest things I have ever eaten was the baked celeriac at Midsomer House in Cambridge. At the risk of writing the most pretentious thing I have ever committed to keyboard (up against some pretty stiff competition,) I genuinely think celeriac may be my favourite vegetable. It’s like all the other veg combined, a potato with multiple personality disorder. And – with apologies to Daniel Clifford – I now have a new favourite version. Salt baked, with wild mushrooms and the sort of peppercorn source that must have taken a gap yah in Asia, this was frankly the tastiest thing I have eaten all year – possibly all decade. It’s the sort of cooking that makes you wonder why anyone bothers with meat. Beefy, earthy, unctuous, umami, oh mummy etc. Just astonishing. I mean, I do eat on my own quite a lot, but rarely have I ended up in conversation with a plate of food like I did with this. I’ve literally run out of superlatives and am salivating again right now as I recall it, although the sauce is probably still hanging around my system looking for a couple of tear ducts to bully. It really didn’t matter what else I ordered, the celeriac was enough to ensure I will be back when I’m next booked this way, praying it’s still on the menu.

I had a dark chocolate ‘millionaires shortbread’ with salted burnt butter ice cream for pudding. It was very sweet, but then of course it was – look at the ingredients. It really didn’t matter – I was still in a celeriac fug – but on reflection, there were a couple of other dishes (well, four actually) I might have gone for instead. Not a criticism, more a lament.

There is literally only one thing for it. I shall have to go back. I would advise you to do the same, just not at the end of May when I’m next up here, and if you must, DO NOT order the celeriac. It’s mine.

There are also rooms, and what looks like excellent walks. I must take my wife for the weekend. I must take my wife for penance. Most of all, I must take my wife for the celeriac.

All in, after coffee, £70 including a decent tip because I had been looked after superbly. Not cheap, but as far as I’m concerned, seriously good value for a Michelin lunch, and one I was delighted to commit my tyres to – both rubber and spare. It is one I shall happily tread a path to again. And again. Indeed, pneumerous times. Especially if I can avoid a flat (white) in Doncaster in much the same way I should avoid any more tyred puns.

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Feb 2025