The Sportsman, Seasalter

Great expectations. That is what we all had. That is also the title of Dickens’ novel of which some was set in or around where we would be lunching today. The we, well, that would be Aaron, half of A Life Worth Eating; Ulterior Epicure; an as yet, un-aliased and unaffiliated passive foodie (let’s call him DB); our gastro-guide and master setter-upper, Moby P; and little old me. The where? That was Seasalter and its Michelin-starred pub, the Sportsman. And yes, you read right, I did include Michelin-starred and pub in the same sentence.

It was a miserable day. Saturday morning. Seven a.m. Heavy rain. Moby P pulled up at the West London underground station we had designated as our pick-up point; Aaron, DB and I bundled into car and into the warmth. We were on our way to a top secret airport (let’s call it H) to fetch Ulterior Epicure and start our cross-Kent road trip. It would be almost a hundred miles and almost two hours before we reached the fabled foodie oasis. However, this is no hush-hush spot out in the middle of nowhere (well, actually it is in the middle of nowhere), for even those famous French tyre peddlers know about it and like it so much they gave it a star last January (2008).