The Foxhunter, Nantyderry, restaurant review To those who deem respectful formality a crucial component of the Michelin experience, I cannot in all conscience recommend the single-starred Foxhunter. Those who prefer warmth and relaxedness, and even slightly startling intimacy, however, are urged to book at once. "Have you helped yourselves to menus?" asked the manager, Lisa, whom we would soon learn is married to chef Matt Tebbutt, a regular presence on television cookery shows. No, we said over drinks by the bar, someone gave them to us. Ah, you've met Auntie Jo already. Auntie Jo? The nice, menopausal waitress. Fears that AJ, who we would also discover is married to Lisa's brother, might be umbraged by so personal a revelation were quickly allayed. "I hope you've not been too cold with the front door open," said AJ. It's my hot flushes, you see. I need the fresh air. On that bombshell, she led us to a table in a handsome, low ceilinged room done out with flagstone flooring, mushroomy walls with piscine prints, brick-encased wood-burners, and large wooden dressers, buzzing rather more than it ordinarily would thanks to the septuagenarian frolicking. The vaguely Tuscan farmhouse feel reminded us of The Walnut Tree nearby, in the foodie nirvana that is Abergavenny, home to Shaun Hill, the Enlightened One of modern British cuisine. So did a menu built on superb local ingredients, but with Italianate flourishes. And so, most impressively of all, did the food. Hot figs with honey, lavender and Greek yogurt made a fresh, gorgeously Aegean pudding Nick began with the classical Tuscan dish of pappardelle with wild rabbit, smoked pancetta and baby onions. The pasta is lovely and light, and there's a strong twang of dill and sage. This is really good," he said, "but," on receiving a forkful, "yours is special." So it was, this alluringly russet-coloured Cornish crab and herb risotto: the rice the perfect texture, and the crabbiness intensified by the richness of the stock. As she set, with a touch of languor, about clearing the plates, AJ continued to prep us for the day Nick and I, in a ground-breaking double-pronged Mastermind appearance, take The Extended Family of Matt Tebbutt for our specialist subject. We learnt, for example, that Matt and Lisa's children, who have a stronger technical claim to call her Auntie Jo than we did, both attend a unisex cubs group; and that all three of her own sons - 18, 14 and seven - adore rugby (what, here? In Wales? Whatever next?). "Another five minutes and she'll show us the stretch marks," said Nick. I guess you have to be in the mood, but I'm enjoying the whole you're-part-of-the-family shtick. She returned, not with a hot flush newsflash (it had abated), but two outstanding main courses. I went for the rack of lamb - a vast serving of two double-boned cutlets - with cocoa beans, in a mild Parmesan cream and organic greens. The lamb was tender and juicy, delicately seasoned with garlic and rosemary, and pulled off the win double of properly crisped fat and ruby red, rare meat, but what made it memorable was the quite sensational depth of flavour. Nick again backed the runner-up: a picturesque bowl of poached brill with tomato-braised octopus, smoked paprika, baby new potatoes; the ensemble surrounded by leaves of variegated hues as if to suggest a New England Fall. "The fish is beautiful, as much for texture as the taste," was the verdict, "and the octopus is good too. I'm not sure how well it goes with the brill, but it looks great among all the leaves. An octopus's garden. Hot figs with honey, lavender and Greek yogurt made a fresh, gorgeously Aegean pudding, while Nick's one complaint about his blackberry, apple and plum crumble with clotted cream concerned a rogue plum stone that might have wrought untold dental mayhem. "It's delicious, but I think you should deduct a point for that," he insisted. Reluctantly, I have. Being a cook of rare talent counts for less than it should if the punter's digestif comes not from a bottle of grappa, but by way of the dentist's syringe. That apart, this meal was exceedingly difficult to fault. It was a total delight, in fact, from the menopausal chat and glorious focaccia served at the start, to the lavish petits fours served with coffee and an account of AJ's squiffiness at Matt's father's own 70th bash the other night. John Humphrys, proudest of Welshmen though he is, may not keep much of a welcome in the Mastermind studio. But there won't be many passes on the day Nick and I are wedged, one indivisible four-buttocked whole, in his black leather chair.