I took most of last Friday off, and as I came back into the loopy-loop late on, I was unsurprised to note that the EU budget talks were talking away into a second night. All of which convinced me that it doesn’t matter how much time you take off from the EU, it’ll be the same when you get back….so why not just leave altogether? The insight, if any, within that observation hasn’t as yet permeated the walls of Camerlot, but we live in hope.

Only about ninety minutes away from where I live here in the Old People’s Republic of Dorvon is the socially patchy (and somewhat bleached) seaside town of Teignmouth. Across the bay from there reside Jonathon and Gracita, old and dear friends who commute between Manila and Shaldon. Shaldon is Teignmouth’s considerably more charming younger brother, and is beginning to suggest that it may yet have a fashionable future beyond the reach of its larger and more seasidy neighbour.

Jon and I have had a staccato relationship since 1971: it was built very slowly upon the shifting sands of the advertising business, but somehow is still standing after more than forty years. This is more than you can say for us. Much divorced wily old goats, we nevertheless cannot repel the combined demands of middle age and misspent youth. Conversations nowadays tend to be about joints, which are entirely different to the mind-altering rollups of JWT circa 1971. Those same minds nowadays can be easily altered and then diverted by the mere act of somebody asking a question. I used to be able to hold an opinion for decades; now I can barely hold a thought for twenty seconds.

A few times a year, we meet up for a grump, thereafter retiring to our respective caves to mourn the passing of what was surely a Golden Age, the ad agency business from around 1970 to 1990. A major part of that existence was the inevitable daily question about how to lunch and where. The enjoyment of nosh remains a shared passion.

For several months now, Jonathon has been a sort of Satan refusing to get him behind me, blathering on about a chef and a restaurant in the village of Shaldon. But it wasn’t until he foolishly suggested treating me to the experience that I felt able, with head held high, to accept. I now wish I hadn’t been so tight-fisted for so long.

These days in England – most things being so hopelessly overpriced – I tend to eat out in decent pubs, or go to my own local seaside town for fish n chips. The standard of pub food has leapt higher than anyone could’ve imagined even twenty years ago, but like I say, the prices have jumped over the moon. More often than not, I’ll cook for myself and friends. I’m a good cook, and fairly inventive. But there is a standard of cheffing where the tune played on the palate is something else entirely. While I can play a pop melody to make eating enjoyable, Tim Bouget can balance an andante movement perfectly on every tongue.

Tim has been running Ode in Shaldon for around six years, but his place remains a secret to most people outside the South West. He trained with Michel Roux and, among many other achievements, served up for the glitterati at Sandy Lane. He’s affable, generous with his advice, and a bloody amazing cook. I haven’t enjoyed a meal so much since…well actually, I know exactly when: six years ago in Villeneuve-sur-Lot. But that was beautifully modernised Occitane cuisine. The food at Ode is classic originality. And yes I know that’s an oxymoron, but it’s as close as I can get.

The restaurant is hidden away in the Georgian posh part of town. I mean hidden in the sense that it’s in a renovated terraced cottage you could easily stroll past, imagining it was just another front room. We ordered the food, and Tim suggested a German Pinot Blanc. I’d imagine it’s a knockout with seafood, but I had mine with a pressed rough pork terrine and was floored. I mean floored as in accelerator. Floored as in taste buds doing 210 miles per hour into the hairpin at Brands Hatch. On the canvas as in please God let me die now while I’m as high as a kite.

As the deal was that I should pay for the second bottle of the evening should it come to that ha-ha, I thought hard and chose a nice-sounding Italian red. It got the Bouget beam of approval, which is a good thing because if he’d have frowned, I would’ve been reduced to insecure blubber. It went down a treat with my medallions of local deer. I’d imagine it would go well with Heinz sandwich spread, because it was wonderful. With Tim Bouget’s cooking it didn’t go well so much as impossibly better than anyone has a right to expect.

With nouvelle cuisine, one often left the restaurant ready to devour a buffalo-roast. The dishes at Ode ensure you leave happy without a trace of bloating. The following morning, we went to Tim’s second place Ode Cafe, delightfully situated in a car park. There we had mushrooms on panini and bacon baps. I left town glad to leave temptation behind. How Jonathon lives there while remaining the right side of twenty stone is beyond me.

Was this haute cuisine? No, it was Ode cuisine. A one-off, and well worth a detour. If you were going from Newcastle to Glasgow it would be well worth the detour. If you were in the West Country, not making the detour could be accepted as evidence of insanity. If you have any sense at all of true food, Ode is not to be missed.

Ode 21 Fore Street Shaldon Devon 01626 873977 www.odetruefood.co.uk

email: info@odetruefood.co.uk