The Cornhouse, Shrewsbury

It's tempting not to review the dinner that we went to review. Does that make any sense?

Oh good, I'm glad. Because to be honest, what I'd really like to do this week is completely ignore the dinner that my friend and I ate and tell you about something completely different.

Forget tempting: the prospect of blithely skipping over this week's dinner is Adam-in-the-Garden-of-Eden-with-a-barrel-of-shiny-apples-beguiling, it's robber-in-a-bank-vault-full-of-used-tenners-tantalising.

Let me explain.

My friend and I – you've met my friend before, she's the one who likes to eat a starter followed by four puddings – found ourselves in Shrewsbury a couple of weeks ago. We hadn't planned a lunch, but suddenly it seemed like a good idea.

We tried Eat Up, one of my favourite destinations for light and informal eating, only to find it completely sold out. So we decided to visit another favourite: The Lion and Pheasant, off Wyle Cop. A few doors from Wyle Cop, my friend stopped and motioned towards a newly-revamped venue: The Cornhouse.

It has been shut for some time, while undergoing a refurbishment, but its doors were open and there were plenty of staff within.

"This looks good," my friend said. And so we popped in for lunch. Unbeknown to us, it was the venue's first day of opening. A few other tables were busy with diners who'd also casually dropped by in search of sustenance.

The venue was a delight. Large wooden tables gave it a rural feel, the colour scheme looked as though it had been created by Farrow and Ball and windows to two sides of the venue made it decidedly light and airy. There was also a steel spiral staircase, leading to the first floor, though my friend and I decided to choose a window table on the ground floor; all the better to watch the world go by.

The menu was a treat. A selection of light gastro-pub style dishes jostled for our attention. We began with one starter-to-share; a plate of goat's cheese beignets with a cooled poached pear, candied walnuts and salad leaves. It was an out-and-out winner. Sweet and salty, hot and cold, crunchy and soft – it was an exceptional amalgam of flavours and textures. It surpassed our expectation.

We were both in the mood for simple fayre. I had a man-sized appetite and opted for their burger, switching from their regular skinny fries to fat chips cooked in beef dripping. My friend opted for the Thai fish and chips, cooked en papillote.

I hate reading reviews about chips. I've read so many that a little piece of me dies every time I read a eulogy to a deep-fried baton of Maris Paper. Fluffy on the outside, crispy in the middle. Yeah, yeah. We've heard it all before.

These, however, weren't chips. If you'll indulge me for a moment, I'll tell you – in the voice of the woman who reads the Marks & Spencer advert – just how good they were.

They were not just chips. They elevated the humble staple to an art form. They didn't need salt or vinegar. They oozed unctuous, savoury beefiness. They were a hymn to rural England; a celebration of the best of local flavour. I could have eaten a plateful. Okay, we're done with the Marks & Spencer voice. But the chips were damn good. And I haven't died a little inside by sharing that.

The burger was good too. It was sufficiently flavoursome to put a smile on my hard-to-please face and the whistles and bells that were served with it made perfect sense. My friend's en papillote dish, meanwhile, was a triumph. Cooking en papillote is such a blindingly sensible way to prepare food that it amazes me why so few restaurants do so. Cooking en papilotte – or, in the bag – means that all of the flavours, steam and juices of a dish are contained. They re-enter the dish in question – a humble piece of fish, in this case – so that it is jam-packed with flavour. Needless to say. My friend ate her dish with some gusto.

It was time for dessert and remarkably my friend only choose one, breaking her normal habit of three. She went for an Eton mess while I went for a chocolate brownie with an orange cream. Both were a treat. The mess contained delicious meringue that had both bite and a mallowey softness. The brownie was deep, dark, rich, fattening and thoroughly bad for us. We loved it.

In fact, we loved it so much that we went to the counter and booked a table for two for dinner. We'd been so impressed by our first impression that we wanted to eat again at The Cornhouse, but spend more time there and savour the experience. Can there be a better recommendation?

If we were keeping score; the Cornhouse would presently be a shoo-in at four out of five. The food was imaginative, cooked with precision, packed with flavour and presented beautifully. The service was also good. It was informal, with staff clearly still learning the ropes but doing everything they could to help.

Our subsequent dinner, however, was not quite so good. And, truthfully, that's why I'd rather forget it ever happened. I'd rather remember the beef chips, the orange cream, the goat's cheese beignets and the service-with-a-smile.

This time, we ascended to the first floor and took our time making our selections. The Cornhouse has an exceptional menu which reminds me very much of the one on offer at The Armoury, in Shrewsbury, or The Fox, at Chetwynd Aston. It features the sort of food that people like to eat at gastro-pubs – steak and fish et al – but there's always a twist. The chef clearly knows his onions.

I'd been so enamoured with the goat's cheese beignet that I ordered another plate. I'd been caught between two minds – a particularly tasty pork rillette dish was begging to be eaten – but my memories of light fluffy beignets and sweet, wine-infused pear were still fresh. I was not disappointed. It was a terrific dish and I'll go for my hat-trick when I next visit.

My friend, meanwhile, was tucking into a plate of oriental duck. A breast had been marinated in flavours of the orient, thinly sliced and served with a delicious salad. She ate it like a woman who'd been fasting for a year. Wolf. Gone.

Our mains were less auspicious. My friend went for a chicken and pasta dish. The pasta – packet, not fresh – was cooked delightfully. It was al dente, with plenty of bite. The chicken was delightfully seasoned and the dish found favour with my partner for the evening.

My dish, sadly, didn't cut the mustard. It was fine; like new socks at Christmas. It was okay; like a phonecall from your great aunty. It was not bad: like the postman knocking the door and offering to deliver an all-important letter but only if you give him an extra quid because the sender didn't pay enough postage.

Let's walk through the dish. A pork loin had been marinated in orange and thyme and placed atop a bed of seasonal greens. A potato fondant was at the side and more orange and thyme sauce had been drizzled on the plate. I picked up a piece of broccoli and bought it to my mouth. I tasted water. It was over-cooked; it had been boiled for too long. The pork was similar. It was a little dry. The potato fondant was the size of a young child's fist. It had been carved from a potato that might have come to a happier end had it been baked in its jacket. The flavours were great – the fondant tasted of herbs, stock and butter and the sauce was magnificent. But it had the look and feel of a not-quite-posh Sunday roast. No matter – one underwhelming dish in a grand total of 11. The Cornhouse is good and it deserves a break.

We hightailed it to dessert. More Eton mess and a Middle East-inspired dish of rosewater-infused yoghurt with pistachio, honey and pomegranate seeds. Both were marvellous. The service was pretty good – though they forget to bring out cutlery for every course: teething problems for new staff, we were unconcerned.

I'm really sorry that I ordered the pork because I like The Cornhouse a lot. The food is smart and sassy; it's got attitude. The chef has got genuine skill. The kitchen is clearly overseen by a smooth operator who's not afraid to put style and panache into every plate. Our second visit would have warranted a creditable six out of ten.

Six plus eight, divided by two gives us seven – and that's about right. The Cornhouse is brimful of potential and provides a welcome addition to Shrewsbury's casual dining scene.

ADDRESS:

The Cornhouse, Wyle Cop, Shrewsbury SY1 1XJ

Tel:01743 231991

Web: www.thecornhouse.co.uk