A common affliction of gastropubs is the removal of all homely charms in favour of slick, sterile interiors. The Rose understands its role as a slightly eccentric town’s local and manages to appeal to both out-of-towners looking for a swish seaside escape and its regulars who want to feel free to pop in whatever the weather.
There’s a steady stream of diners and drinkers who keep both candlelit dining rooms and the long, polished wooden bar buzzy on our visit, with the open kitchen adding to the dynamism of the space. Some come for a pint, others for the extremely good cocktails, but most are there for a meal.
Many menus these days pay lip service to the seasons somehow, but the difference here is the staunch commitment to using the best of British in every dish. The abundance of local strawberries results in unusual combinations of fish and fruit, and peaches are paired with tomatoes for a light plate that refuses to bend to the usual rules of what constitutes as a starter.
Seafood naturally takes the leading role. A combination of silk-smooth taramasalata with radishes and chicory leaves gave sweet and salty tempered with bitterness and a peppery bite. A main of confit trout was soft and yielding with a blush centre and a scattering of fat roe that burst like grown up popping candy. The accompanying crispy Pink Firs and a creamy dill sauce made for a classic, please-all plate. Unusually, a bread back at the start was one of the best things we ate. It was thick, salty focaccia with goat’s curd drenched in all kinds of intense flavours from herbs, capers and a nip of zest. That and a glass of something cold would nearly be enough.
And yet we soldiered on to dessert which was pleasant enough (grilled chiffon cake with strawberries) but didn’t blow our socks off. However, the overall experience is so charming that even if faced with the same food again we’d still go for the sweets, just to linger a little longer in one of the colourful, cosy corners and be served by the companiable team.