A Night at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons

I don’t often get sentimental about places these days. Life’s been moving very quickly recently and has been full of new chapters and change, so I’ve got quite good at letting experiences and places come in and out of my world without getting too soppy about goodbyes. But pulling out of the drive of Le Manoir last week, I felt a distinct tug of emotion: I was sad that we were leaving. Not, I reflected, because it was the end of probably one of the most exceptional hospitality experiences you could have in the world, nor because I’d eaten one of the most extraordinary meals of my life there, but because Raymond Blanc has created a remarkable place that feels like its own fairytale world.

Steeped in 41 years of culinary excellence, hospitality, and love (Le Manoir itself, not the building, which, in part, dates back to the 12th century), it is a place that glows from the inside out. From the flowerbeds bursting with purples, whites, and silvers, which Nadya Pearson, gardener at Le Manoir, tells me are Raymond’s favourite colours, to the topiary apricot trees stubbornly affixed to the south-facing wall of the drive—his efforts to bring warm-blooded French stone fruit to the UK—to the 32 individual rooms named and designed around Raymond’s childhood memories and favourite places, every detail feels incredibly intimate and considered.

We arrive at 3pm to a buzzing reception filled with warmth. Wellies line up by a roaring hearth, meadow-like bursts of spring flowers decorate every surface, and the second question I’m asked is whether I’d like a glass of champagne or English sparkling wine (Note to the reader: this is how to win my heart). Theo, a lovely valet, takes us to our room, tucked away in a verdant courtyard centred around a giant horse chestnut. It’s a Venetian-themed suite, bejewelled with decorative masks and hand-blown glass. On a small table, an Alice in Wonderland-esque labelled bell jar entreats us to tuck into the lemon cake enclosed: Raymond’s signature cake that he’s served (and perfected) as a welcoming treat since Le Manoir’s doors first opened. Across the room, glistening in an ice bucket, sits a bottle of complimentary 2015 Vintage Veuve Clicquot. I’m already a tad overwhelmed.

Left to our own devices, Oscar and I take ourselves on a walk around the gardens. There’s a wildflower meadow encircled with ancient apple trees; a rond-point herb garden where a statue of Raymond’s late maman sits as custodian; a polytunnel carpeted with microherbs of every possible variety; an elegant sage-green potting shed finished with green and white-striped upholstery; an organic vegetable garden guarded by a bronze scarecrow (which, we’re told, is a playful interpretation of Raymond himself)… it’s my idea of heaven.

Later, we freshen up for dinner and are ushered to a drawing-room sofa by the fire. Every member of staff that we meet is brimming with warmth; you get the sense that everyone really takes pride in their work here. Andrea, a wonderful hostess, brings us a menu for aperitifs. I opt for a Rêve de Miel, made with Le Manoir’s own honey, and Oscar goes classic with a Negroni. We do our very best to resist the perfectly salted almonds and olives that accompany our drinks, all too aware of what’s to follow. Guests are invited to study the menu ahead of dinner, with the option of à la carte, a seven-course set menu, or a combination of the two. You can guess which one we go for.

There are a few things (overall experience and menu aside) in a restaurant that I think of as ‘touches’. Firstly, when there’s a bread basket that you can get lost in (or an abundance of delicious bread and salted butter full stop). Secondly, when a preamble of food appears on the table that you are not expecting: in this case, a fairy ring of canapés from melt-in-the-mouth beetroot and goat’s curd macarons to beef tartare and shimeji mushroom nori croustades. Thirdly, when you are left to your own devices and are not asked with every course whether everything is alright (if it’s not, I’d like to think I’d pluck up the courage to say so). Every aspect of this meal is perfection.

Faced with exquisite course after exquisite course, I can’t stop thinking about what I know of Raymond’s background, from his rural upbringing in Comté to the humble origins of the original Quat’Saisons in Oxford, wedged between a lingerie shop and an Oxfam. This is true inspiration.

After canapés, we are presented with a confit egg yolk, encased in a laser-cut white eggshell (I only know because I ask Katie, our waitress, about its origins) and submerged in white asparagus velouté and pea purée. Every mouthful is studded with tiny pieces of crispy smoked bacon, and we marvel at how it can be both so complex and rich, and so light and spring-like. Next comes an unusual take on crab, deeply flavoured with lemongrass, flecked with passionfruit, and topped with a coconut cream. The finishing touch is a sprinkling of freeze-dried grapefruit shards, which beautifully cut through the zesty balm of lemon. To pair with these two courses is a minerally Les Chapelles Riesling from Alsace, which our sparkly-eyed somm, Claire Lam, keeps topped up with assiduous care.

We then move onto the next course: a morel mushroom stuffed with chicken and sweetbread mousse, balanced on a grid of tender white asparagus, which you can’t see for the bloom of Jura wine and chicken stock foam surrounding it. I tell Oscar it tastes like walking into a forest, with a mouthful of garden (the asparagus) to finish. He finds this amusing and tells me to write it down. Next is a briochey Billecart-Salmon Champagne to accompany the most delicate cod I’ve ever eaten. The garden theme continues with the tender hearts of bright green leeks, chive oil, and a wild fennel frond, which balance out the smoked cod’s roe mousse and pike’s roe that accompany the fish. Then, it’s a tender saddle of lamb with wild garlic, green asparagus, and sweetbread, which Claire serves with a beautiful red Chassagne-Montrachet.

If you’re still reading by this point, hats off to you; we’ve made it to pudding. Oscar spends the next 12 hours raving about this rhubarb, and I’m pretty sure every member of staff at the Manoir is told to report this back to pastry. It’s tangy, sweet layer after layer of rhubarb and timur pepper, with a creamy bed of vanilla rice pudding concealed beneath. To be fair to Oscar’s enthusiasm, it is incredible. This and a duo of Earl Grey/lemon chocolate tarts and a grapefruit sorbet are accompanied by a honey-hued Sémillon, which is really just sheer indulgence at this point. We decide we need a little walk to justify the cheese trolley, so we take ourselves back to the drawing room to enjoy it in front of the fire.

midnight cellar tour

Just as Oscar is about to nod off/require rolling back to our room, Claire reappears to confirm a little excursion down to the cellar. We tiptoe through the empty kitchen, already polished to a shine ahead of breakfast service, and disappear down into a labyrinth of bottles, where Claire gives us a midnight tour of all the wines. We feel like naughty schoolchildren in a sweet shop. It’s a fittingly intimate end to what has been such an exceptionally thoughtful, inspiring and personal experience. We thank any member of staff still standing at this hour and tumble into bed.

Next morning, the sun decides to finally make an appearance in little golden chinks through our cottage window, and we make our way through beds of daffodil and hellebores to breakfast. As you will probably expect by now, every detail is considered. There’s a DIY champagne and Bloody Mary stand; a continental buffet boasting everything from wafer-thin charcuterie to homemade jam; and a separate table of bread and pastries that might as well be its own boulangerie. I opt for a perfectly laminated pain suisse with chocolate and pistachio, and a bowl of overnight oats with bright pink rhubarb compote. Coffee and creamy chocolat chaud (Oscar 🥲) arrive in tall chrome coffee pots, and we’re each given a fiery ginger and apple shot to get started. After a feast of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and caviar, we stumble out into the sunshine for a farewell garden tour; a lovely optional touch to round off any stay at the hotel.

Whilst Raymond Blanc himself is sadly not around on our visit, his presence is felt everywhere. It is this—stars, reviews, and accolades aside—that ultimately gives Le Manoir its warmth and charm.