EATING OUT: Creating a public nuisance

THE ROYAL GEORGE: Irsha Street, Appledore, Devon EX39 1RJ. Tel: 01237 474335. Open every day, noon to 2pm for lunch and 7 to 9pm for dinner. A changing menu offers fish courses from pounds 7.50, depending on the day's catch. Average a la carte price for dinner, pounds 15. House wines from pounds 8. Credit cards accepted

I FEEL DOWNRIGHT uncomfortable about what I am going to have to write, and I'd really rather not do it at all. The trouble is that in many ways I liked the Royal George; I liked the sharp-tongued, camp proprietor, I loved the view, but there's just no getting away from the fact that, with few exceptions, the food was lousy. There is also no getting away from the fact that it is extremely popular, so much so that I had to go at lunchtime as it was fully booked in the evenings.

The Royal George is in the most glorious location, in the charming seaside town of Appledore in north Devon. It sits right on the very edge of the Taw estuary, looking over to Instow on the opposite bank. Walk-ing along the quay and down meandering Irsha Street, with its gaily painted terraced houses, it is easy to imagine that you are back in the Fifties or early Sixties.

In late summer, the holiday makers are enjoying peaceful seaside pursuits: eating ice-creams, staring out to sea, crabbing at high tide; strolling along the sand and through rocky outcrops at low tide. Child- ren run barefoot, playing around the boats marooned by receding waters like something from a film of an innocent, idyllic past. What bliss to find somewhere that is not marred by insistent blaring noises, flashing neon signs, or any other traces of the fast-track cultural decimation of recent decades.

That morning I'd been in Barnstaple, exploring the pannier market and the row of fishmongers' and butchers' shops that runs its length. I'd spotted fantastically fresh fish, sea bass that had clearly been hauled in that morning at Appledore, along with other fish of a similar calibre. My hopes for lunch were buoyant with the thought of perfectly, simply cooked fish that had hardly had time to do more than leap from boat to kitchen.

True, my visions of seaside meals have been coloured by visits to the Continent, but after all, why shouldn't one expect similar fare on our own coasts? Heaven knows we've got the fish ... well, what's left of it after the appreciative Spanish and French have bought up a fair whack to supplement their own supplies. Overfishing and pollution may have diminished the haul, but what comes in from small day boats like those at Appledore is as good as and often better than the fish landed in warmer European waters.

The Royal George is a public house that boasts a handful of tables looking out over breathtaking views. This small, narrow restaurant room is congenial without being fancy, and without losing the ambience of the comfortable pub to which it belongs. Today's fresh fish includes lemon sole, halibut and bream, as well as skate and plaice. Mine host responds with an air of offended sharpness when we inquire about the fish: "But of course it is fresh. The day I serve frozen fish is the day I leave."

Various starters come and go; they are not remarkable, they are not unpleasant. My squid rings are over-browned, making the squid inside a little chewier than it might be, but not impossibly so. The "garlic mayonnaise sauce" is not great, but nor is it salad cream. It is, after all, the main course that we are anticipating with hope, but hope is soon dashed against the rocks.

The fish that turns up looks just like the badly cooked fish that I've picked over too frequently in endless cheap restaurants. Despite being supposedly grilled, each portion is enclosed in a thick brown coating, seasoned, I imagine, with some proprietary seasoning mix, or now that I think about it, the whole lot probably comes ready-mixed. Whatever it is, it does nothing for the delicate flavour of fresh fish. More than that, it overwhelms it. Drenched in fat, blackened and blistered here and there, what might well have been a glistening, bright-eyed fish a few hours ago is now completely ruined. The overcooked flesh is woolly, and would be dry were it not for the grease.

Why? Why does it have to be like this? What's wrong with cooking the fish un- der the grill just as it is, in the buff, brushed lightly with a neutral oil, until just cooked through? Or flash-frying it for a few brief moments, dipped lightly in a little flour seasoned with nothing more exotic than salt and pepper? Surely it wouldn't push prices up. Nor would it demand an inordinate amount of skill, and what's more, it might be even quicker to prepare and serve.

Well, what did I expect? It is all too easy to wax lyrical about how restaurant cooking in Great Britain has improved beyond all recognition, and indeed it has in some areas, but it is just not so in many parts of the country. What puzzles and dismays me most about the Royal George is how a restaurateur can take such pride in the quality and freshness of his star ingredient, and then let it be ruined with careless, thoughtless cooking. Still, if you do happen to end up sitting in the dining room of the Royal George, can I recommend that you skip straight from the starters to the one really good dish of our meal - the excellent bread-and-butter pudding that is made, apparently, to mine host's mother's recipe. Thank heavens for small mercies.