The Broxton doggers

15st 6lb, 6.5 units. Despite the fact that we have no money, and despite having given Mrs H the massive treat of lunch out in Shropshire yesterday, I somehow found myself offering to take her out for lunch today. As another massive treat, obviously.

Come to think of it, this may be why we have no money.

My only excuse was a nagging desire to try out the newly refurbished Egerton Arms by the Broxton roundabout. The pub is a former Marston’s house that had been closed for a while and looked to have been given a pretty comprehensive makeover by a small, local chain which incorporates a couple of other food-orientated pubs that we rather like. I drive past the place twice a day most days, and I was curious.

The Broxton roundabout’s other claim to fame is that the adjacent public car park is, I am repeatedly though not necessarily reliably informed, Cheshire’s number one dogging site. I was curious, officer. If the pub proved to be any good, maybe I could propose a future evening of food, wine and entertainment, the last comprising standing around with a lot of other cagoule-wearing perverts, watching some fearful old slapper being serviced on the bench front seat of her husband’s 1956 MG Magnette. Actually, the only thing in that mental picture that I find vaguely arousing is the MG Magnette, so maybe not.

The Egerton Arms was far from busy, but it is early days. The staff all appeared to be about 12, but I am sure that they were in fact a completely legal 18, as I am always assured by those websites I occasionally find myself glancing at purely by accident as I navigate my way around the blogs I like to follow. They did not know the difference between a gin and tonic and a large gin and tonic (hint for future reference: it’s a gin) and the pork loin steak with Roquefort and apple was nothing like as delicious as it sounded on the menu, mainly because it tasted of nothing apart from Roquefort. Which I like, I hasten to add, but I might as well have had it as the centrepiece of a ploughman’s. The Eton mess was damn good, though, and after a disappointingly meagre G&T, a small glass of Chilean sauvignon with my seared scallops starter and three small glasses of Argentinian pinot noir with the rest, I found that I did not care about anything much. In fact, I was so relaxed that I was even prepared to allow Mrs H to drive me home for the second day running.

The Boy beckons: always a worrying sign