Simon Rogan: 'The eyes of the world will be on me at Claridge's. That's why I'm there' — theguardian.com

At 7.30pm on the night of the greatest storm of the winter, I sit down to dinner at L'Enclume, in Cartmel. Outside, it's mayhem: the trees are jerking wildly from side to side, like girls trying to squeeze into too-tight jeans; the beck has developed waves; the scaffolding on the medieval priory lists and creaks alarmingly. But inside, all is calm. The ebb and flow of service is as soothing as a cashmere blanket. In quick succession, I'm presented with the first of 21 courses: an oyster "pebble" hidden like treasure in a wooden box; a cow's heel, dehydrated to resemble a prawn cracker and served with curds and onion "ashes"; a "hot pot" that is really a beef consommé with three perfect meat and potato pearls floating inside it. There is a version of a prawn cocktail served in a pottery "sack" with mace powder and a massive dose of chutzpah; a cod and saffron "yolk" that comes with puffed rice and a miserable sense, once you've had the first mouthful, that it will be gone far too soon; and then, like a clean page, a plate of good, sweet bread made with local Cumbrian ale.

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