Dinner date at the Mason Arms

I am indescribably gutted!

A few weeks ago I wrote about my trip to Cuba with members of the Boisdale Jazz and Cigar Club.

Arriving back at Gatwick one of our group, Gerry Stonhill, couldn't get into his car because of a problem with the electrics so I offered to drive him home to Oxfordshire, a four-hour detour from my own home in Cambridgeshire.

My good deed was inspired by several things.

One, I had just read Judith O'Reilly's amusing and occasionally thought-provoking book A Year of Doing Good.

Two, speaking to Gerry during our time in Havana I discovered that he ran a pub, hated the smoking ban, and had been prosecuted and fined £5,750 in 2008 for allowing customers to smoke on the premises in breach of the law.

(Following his conviction, he told the Oxford Mail: "You make up what you want, old boy. I'm not making any comment, except Tony Blair can stick his anti-smoking law up his a***.")

Three, and most important, I liked him. He was down-to-earth and good fun, if a little eccentric.

Exactly how eccentric I didn't fully appreciate until we arrived at his pub, The Mason Arms, and discovered that its full name is Gerry Stonhill's 'Individual' Mason Arms.

According to a polite note:

We do look after you from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave
We don't ever ask you to leave your table as we have let it again
We don't pile our food up so it looks like a bonfire
We don't serve anything but soup in a soup plate
We don't have 'a la this' or 'a la that' on our menu
We don't like children, mobile telephones or media restaurant critics
We do like like our guests to arrive by Hispano-Suiza, Bugatti, Ferrari, in a helicopter or on an MV Agusta
We are a bit expensive but so is a Patek Phillippe
We do only serve aged Scotch beef
We do make the best bloody Mary or dry Martini in England

The note adds:

Due to the pathetic nanny laws, hunting, smoking and coursing are not permitted at my Mason Arms.

Finally:

The food we serve is simply the best and our quality is remembered long after the price is forgiven.

I was given a tour of the thatched building which can best be described as idiosyncratic. It's very old so there are lots of low, dark beams and a substantial fireplace. It must be magnificently warm and snug on a cold winter's day.

The walls are covered with memorabilia and there are wine bottles and cigar boxes everywhere.

Outside there's a small field with a helipad for wealthy customers who wish literally to make a flying visit.

(On the day I drove Gerry home he said Nigel Farage might be having lunch there but I don't think the UKIP leader was going to risk arriving by helicopter or any other flying machine!)

Gerry lives in what used to be outbuildings that have been converted into comfortable living quarters.

He told me he bought the pub 18 years ago, inheriting a chef (who worked alone in the kitchen) who had been there for at least 25 years before that.

In modern parlance, which I'm certain Gerry hates, the Mason Arms is a gastro pub because its reputation is based as much on its food as anything else.

And what a reputation! Restaurateur and chef Raymond Blanc has written:

"I often drive around Oxfordshire to look for places to recommend to our guests. The minute I stepped into the Mason Arms I knew I had stumbled upon somewhere very special ... It's the sort of place where you never want to leave."

According to Marco Pierre White:

"I wouldn't pretend that the Mason Arms is perfect in each and every part. But taken together, the food, Gerry's cardigan and the old-fashioned spirit and feel of the place make it my favourite pub in Britain."

Best of all, perhaps, is a hilarious review by the late Michael Winner in the Sunday Times. Gerry sent it to me himself which says a lot about the man. It's one of the funniest things I have ever read:

Robert Warner of Woodstock, Oxfordshire, wrote a letter that sadly there was no room to publish. Reading I was going to the nearby Mason Arms in South Leigh, as a guest of my friend the television writer Laurence Marks, Mr Warner said: "You will either love it ... or loathe it." I loathed it. It was the most extraordinary meal I've ever had. Not because of the food, but because of the bizarre behaviour of the "host", Gerry Stonhill, and his waiter, Roger Castel.

It started as soon as I drove into the car park. Laurence Marks came to greet me. Our party of four were the only people lunching. Mr Stonhill posed studiously in front of a Harley-Davidson, making no attempt to acknowledge our arrival. When he spoke, it was to say how much he loved the motorbike.

On the exterior of the pub wall, a large sign reads: ‘Gerry Stonhill’s “Individual” Mason Arms. Gerry explained: “It’s individual because I run the place exactly as I want to.” Anyone who has to put up a sign telling people they’re “individual” has problems.

The pub itself is vastly, but not unpleasantly, overdecorated. There are photos, plates, prints, books, stuffed birds, carefully placed cigar boxes and, pretentiously laid out on a table, “every Armagnac from 1919 to 1993”, explained Marks.

A photo of Edward G Robinson was signed “To Eddie Paso”. I asked Gerry how he got that, Edward G being one of my all-time favourite movie stars. “I bought it because he’s smoking a cigar,” said Gerry. “Who is he?” Thus are the mighty fallen.

Problems started when we sat down. We were given two menus for four people. Mr Castel said they only had two menus, Gerry said they had five. So, after asking, we got one each. There was a large pat of butter on the table – wrapped. Why should I have to unwrap butter? Laurence Marks didn’t get the fresh orange juice he ordered. Gerry showed us some thin asparagus, which he said he preferred. I like it thicker, but ordered it anyway.

Some very fresh-looking fish was brought in. Georgina ordered sea bass. I had a side order of black foot Jabugo at £15. Very good. I found the asparagus undercooked but other people might have liked it. I asked for some melted butter and Roger Castel said dismissively, “It was cooked in butter.” I don’t care if it was cooked in Dulux paint. If I ask for extra butter, just give it to me. Gerry did.

I declined the highly recommended duck because it was precooked, then taken off the bone and reheated, which sounded ghastly. I ordered cottage pie. The bread was not warm and very cloying.

Mrs Marks, a delightful former Miss Germany called Brigitte, said the chips were legendary. Gerry went on about the potatoes being wrong, but they were excellent anyway. Georgina asked for tomato ketchup. This produced another burst of rudeness from Roger Castel. “You want ketchup? Do we have ketchup? You don’t want it for the fish, do you …? and so on.

“Never mind the smart remarks, just get the lady some ketchup, please,” I interjected. I see no reason to put down a girl because she asks for something the waiter doesn’t approve of. She wanted to dip the chips in ketchup, and good luck to her.

The whole meal was ruined by the constant, pathetic repartee from Gerry or Mr Castel. I came to have lunch with my friend Laurence Marks, a quiet-spoken gent who’s always interesting. Not to participate in buffoon dialogue with the staff.

I told Gerry I found his waiter putting down Georgina to be deeply offensive. He snapped back. When it came to the dessert, he carried on the charade.

Gerry recommended queen of puddings. “What’s that, please?” I asked. “You don’t know what queen of puds is?” expostulated Gerry, as if dealing with a halfwit. “I can’t believe you don’t know what it is!”

“Could you tell me?” I repeated. “Well, it’s got strawberry jam,” replied Gerry as if explaining how to spell “cat” to an idiot child. “Then it’s meringue on top, some cake underneath … you really mean you don’t know what queen of puds is?”

The experience was approaching major nausea. Luckily the pudding itself was very good, as was my cottage pie.

For the finale, Gerry led me into his toilet to see a crude colour cartoon of naked men and women he’d bought in France. I glanced at it, then made an excuse and left.

The problem with Gerry is someone obviously told him he was a character and he believed them. That was a mistake.

The Mason Arms, then, is clearly a unique experience and I was thrilled when Gerry insisted that I return, with my wife, as his guest and he would treat us to dinner and we could stay the night.

(This, of course, raises an issue that Judith O'Reilly discusses in her book. Should we accept rewards for good deeds? Frankly, this was too good an offer to refuse!)

Gerry rang me, twice, to make sure we accepted his invitation and we agreed a date - today, Saturday April 27.

I can't tell you how much I was looking forward to it. Then, earlier this week, he rang me again. Bad news.

His long-serving chef retired, as planned, last month. His replacement left last week. The Mason Arms is now closed and Gerry is looking for a buyer.

He wants to keep in touch but the sad fact is I won't be having dinner at Gerry Stonhill's 'Individual' Mason Arms tonight or – by the look of it – ever.

Seriously, I am so, so gutted.