It's unique and the food is just fantastic
Review by Nathan Rous
from the Shropshire Star

Believe me, you would know If you had been to The Pheasant in Broseley before. Partly because the food is downright unforgettable, but partly because you'll never find anywhere else quite like it.

Owners Clive and Sue Vasey have managed to create the ultimate dining experience which drags people from all corners of Britain, let alone Shropshire. One couple we spoke to come up from Devon every year! But maybe this is because The Pheasant is more than just somewhere to eat out.

Visitors are instant friends, regulars are like family and the welcome is as warm as the fire which roars through the winter. There are four sumptuously decorated rooms for guests who enjoy a little too much wine with their meals, plus the promise of a hearty breakfast to banish all memories of the night before. The surroundings are spectacular. Wonderful oak tables, each with oil burners, are littered around a huge dining room which contains the most charming Victorian oak-panelled bar. Fairy lights line the ceiling and there's no lack of personal touches to make it feel like your own dining room. The exterior is equally as impressive. At least there's no excuse for missing The Pheasant Inn because the entire building has been cloaked in bright yellow paint - lighting up Church Street and pointing the way to a hearty meal.

Hearty
And hearty it is, for there is no scrimping on portions in this kitchen. While Sunday lunches are divine and Tuesday night has become world-renown as "famous fish and chip night", it's the a Ia carte menu which really lights up the palate. Clive is a damn whizz amongst the pots and pans, pulling together a series of dishes that would worm their way on to any menu. The choice was enormous but eventually I settled for monkfish tails wrapped in delicate slices of Parma ham and nestled in to a fantastic red pesto sauce. My lucky guest (lucky because of the venue, not my company!) went for a fabulous hunk of roasted salmon. Words failed me as I ooohed and aaahed my way through my main course.

The fish was plump and fleshy - the best part of the monkfish by a long chalk. The Parma ham gave the clean fish a wonderfully salty edge, while the pesto bound the pair together. It was like Fred and Ginger on a plate. The salmon glowed with organic freshness. In fact, it was so fresh you half expected it to leap oft the plate. The roasting process crisped up the edges and caramalisethe corners. The vegetables, too, were a triumph. Carrots glazed in orange~, leeks fried in butter, tender florets of broccoli steamed to perfection and nubile buds of baby sweetcorn. But the fanfare had to be reserved for the "famous fries". My eyes put on weight just looking at this tangled collection of deep-fried potato spindles. Thankfully they didn't come with any breakdown of fat content so we w olfed them down without giving our arteries a second thought.

And no wonder they're famous. When people write down what they want to do before they die, stick "eating famous fries" next to seeing the Great Wall of China, climbing Everest and sky-diving from 30,000 feet.

All this would suggest we had no room for dessert, particularly after polishing off a well-priced bottle of dry white. But Sue can be very persuasive, especially when one of her mother's desserts make it on to the menu. We did not want to offend so we plumped for two helpings of homemade apple pie with ice cream. There is no looking back because never has pastry crumbled so impressively.

A couple of coffees signed the meal off as we relaxed to the tail end of the most amazing Billie Holiday album.

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