Michael Wignall at The Latymer, Surrey, restaurant review 'Amazing': the poached Loire Valley rabbit starter (RII SCHROER) The problem when the freebie flourishes are so gorgeous is that they set the bar exceedingly high for the proper dishes. Not all of those hurdled it cleanly, though one that did was Nick's starter, a medley of poached Loire Valley rabbit loin with a rabbit chorizo bolognese, white polenta, Périgord truffle and too much else to list in the absence of a four-page supplement. "This rabbit is amazing," he cooed. So it was. I have never eaten better rabbit. The saving grace of my "cured and torched" salmon, on the other hand, with smoked aubergine, Portland crab, yogurt and coriander, was that there was so little of it. The salmon tasted like something John West would think twice about sticking in a tin. "Is there the faintest hint here," said Nick, over glasses of a lovely tokaji (the wine list is so terrifying that we had to flee to Hungary on affordability grounds), "of prissiness?" He was gazing at a dish of cannon of Cumbrian lamb - deep pink and gloriously tender - with lamb haslet, Roscoff onion, roasted salsify and smoked potato in which the size of the serving was in inverse proportion to that of the outsize plate. "The taste is fabulous," said Nick, "but if there is one Cabinet minister I wouldn't bring here, it has to be Eric Pickles." My shoulder and belly of suckling piglet with cep, caramelised onion and trompette mushroom was ridiculously melty, having been cooked for 36 hours, but lacked the lamb's sublime depth of flavour. Moments of brilliance: a main course (RII SCHROER) Having backed the winner in the first two courses, Nick landed the treble with his pudding - a collation of "banana cheesecake" (no biscuity base, and texturally more like frozen yogurt) with a ginger biscuit, rum espuma, chocolate jelly and milk ice cream. To adapt Winston Churchill, whose 139th birthday falls today, this was a pudding with a clearer theme than my amalgam of prune, served in various creative manifestations, a doughnut, Earl Grey panna cotta and much besides. Although a delight to the eye, the taste was comforting rather than electrifying. Coffee came with an absurdly luxurious array of petits fours (as it should, for £6.50). If not every dish branded itself on the memory, and despite the salmon being a shocker, there were enough moments of brilliance to establish Wignall as a cook of flair, artistry and monumental technical ability. As we left a restaurant that cocoons you absolutely from the stresses and confusions of contemporary life, Nick's Alice Through The Looking-Glass analysis was refined. The rugby lads might be unimpressed with the portions, but this is undeniably a slice of paradise for the moneyed and mature Surrey golfing fanatic who yearns for the certainties of a simpler and more elegant age. The Latymer, in other words, is (Peter) Alliss In Wonderland. Once upon a time, under the captaincy of Bill Beaumont, the English rugby union team was invited to a pre-international reception in Paris and presented with an aftershave, created in its honour by a leading parfumier. Eager not to offend his hosts, one of the lads unscrewed the stopper, raised it to his nose for a sniff, and drank the lot in one gulp. Even if that story is an urban myth, it carries an authentic ring of psychological truth about rugby etiquette, as those who recall Mike Tindall's exploits in and outside that dwarf-throwing bar in New Zealand will appreciate. I reprise it not as a commentary on rugger-bugger mores, but to place in context the colossal incongruity that the Pennyhill Park Hotel in Bagshot is home both to the England rugby squad's training facility and to the double-Michelin-starred Michael Wignall at The Latymer. The notion of the boys trooping in for lunch after a morning's scrotum-twisting, eye-gouging and ear-cauliflowering is surreal. Dessert at the Latymer (RII SCHROER) "This," said my cousin Nick when we were seated in an almost square room of restrained opulence - ornately latticed windows, thick red carpet, beamed ceiling; a ringer for the drawing room in which Laurence Olivier tormented his cuckolder Michael Caine in Sleuth - "is the daintiest cutlery I have ever seen." As he twirled an impossibly tiny butter knife, it seemed to vanish between his fingers (and Nick, bless him, is no Goliath). Old boy, I've had complicated dental work done with far less-delicate implements. It's all a bit Alice Through The Looking-Glass, and I'm not sure I'm good enough to eat here. The meal that followed was so replete with amuse-bouches that our three-course dinner felt more like a nine-course tasting menu. Yet the portions were as weeny as the cutlery, and I could not suppress the mental image of a rugby star gazing in bewilderment at the plates, and crossly reaching out for the floral display to boost his calorie intake. "Tonight," began a gold-tie-clad young French waiter who introduced our first bouche-amuser, "Chef proposes taramasalata with tapioca crisps." The fish roe was sensational, as was a chicken liver parfait with cep jelly, and by the end of the evening Chef had made more proposals than Zsa Zsa Gabor and Elizabeth Taylor accepted between them. The best, a black risotto with chorizo, had astounding intensity and clarity of taste. To adapt Winston Churchill, whose 139th birthday fell at the weekend, this was a pudding with a clearer theme than my amalgam of prune, served in various creative manifestations, a doughnut, Earl Grey panna cotta and much besides. Pennyhill Park Hotel, London Road, Bagshot, Surrey, GU19 5EU, 01276 486150; Penny Hill Park. Three courses à la carte: £78 (£110-£120 with wine, coffee and service); tasting menu £92 per head (£177 with matching wines)