The French Horn at Sonning

Every now and again, I am lucky enough to be taken out to dinner. That’s great; you get a slap up feed and ideally a lift there and back and you can leave your wallet at home.  Last week I was taken out by my parents-in-law as a present for being the custodian of their daughter for 25 years. We went to the French Horn at Sonning which is worth a blog update.
If Langans Brasserie is Michael Cane, and if Fifteen is trendy young Jamie Oliver then The French Horn is Michael Winner.  So it’s no huge surprise to discover it is in fact Winner’s fave eatery.  It’s unquestionably expensive, a little past its best, somewhat bloated and rather pleased with itself. But the food, albeit from a menu straight out of the seventies is really good. They don’t go for anything fancy; no rabbit five ways or Oscietra caviar and not a “jus” or a gooseberry foam in sight.  It’s hearty steaks, steamed monkfish, proper green veges with crepes suzettes and apple crumble for pud. Fit.
And the service is freindly and attentive. The waiters and the Maitre D are like they’re related and grew up together, knowing each one’s next move by instinct.  They hover invisibly anticipating the arrival of the bottom of your glass with a generous top-up of Chenin Blanc.
The gardens outside, although drowned by the rain when we were there, looked fab too and had it been a nicer evening, a table overlooking the grand rapids that was the Thames that night might have been an option.
Winner knows about comfort and the Horn is indeed comfortable. I don’t mind the seventies feel, they wear it with pride and a confidence that upholds a loyal following.  And besides, we had a good night out. But too many visits there and I think you’d morph into a pompous, former film director and start saying “Calm down dear” alot.


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