Heart and soul

There's ice-cream in the risotto and grapefruit with the fish. But, says Terry Durack, a key ingredient is missing at The Vineyard ÿ a sprinkle of passion

What sort of place calls itself The Vineyard when there isn't one? "So where's the vineyard?" I ask the nice person who greets my car on arrival at the Michelin-starred Vineyard at Stockcross. "In California" he replies. "The owner has a winery there."

The owner is the entrepreneur Sir Peter Michael CBE. Really, I don't know why they didn't just call it SirPeterLand instead. He's everywhere. His signature is on the Villeroy & Boch plates, his name is on the wine labels. It appears to be an international passport to the passions of horse-racing, golf, art and wine.

SirPeterLand is a rather luxurious and obviously expensive establishment close to Newbury racecourse and minutes from a sister establishment that boasts an 18-hole, par-71 golf course. Artworks by Boris Smirnoff, Stanley Spencer and even Ronald Searle hang everywhere – even in the loos – and the wine connection is reinforced by the presence of two telephone-book wine lists, one dedicated solely to Californian wines.

In fact, it all feels strangely and not unpleasantly Californian, recalling the sweeping vistas and modern set-pieces of the Napa Valley. Outside, flames burst forth from a huge circle of water in a sculptural artwork, while inside, it's a Ralph Lauren-like idea of an English manor, with more patterns than you'll see at a WI knees-up.

Menus and wine lists are brought with aperitifs in the clubby bar, before one is ushered into the dining-room, where there seem to be as many waiters as diners.

The recently appointed executive chef John Campbell built a reputation – and a Michelin star – for himself at the Lords of the Manor in Gloucestershire. With his impressively named head chef, Nathan Outlaw, Campbell, like Heston Blumenthal, Pierre Gagnaire and Ferran Adria, subscribes to the new science-based sub-division of modern cuisine which can lead to a few shocks and surprises.

But an appetiser of a single prawn ravioli floating in a little cup of shellfish bouillon is eloquently simple, gentle and reassuring. A starter of creamy smoked haddock risotto and mustard sherbet separated by a crisp shard of sweet seaweed is a dream of hot against cold, smoke against spice, sweet against savoury, crisp against soft, while deep-red shreds of red cabbage and tear drops of red cabbage reduction add a fresh light acidic contrast. I'm not a great one for ice-cream with risotto, but this transcends jiggery-pokery to be ear-marked as a dish that could become a classic of its times.

Campbell's penchant for contrasting both temperatures and textures comes through loud and clear in a starter of black pudding with roast scallop and apple panna cotta. I am instructed to eat a cold quenelle of pumpkin at the same time as a warm, wobbly roe-flecked, sea-sweet scallop sitting on a celariac remoulade; and to team a bowl of lush, pancetta-topped panna cotta with a dark plug of homemade black pudding sitting on a squish of horseradish mash. When to eat the accompanying squiggle of onion soubise is left entirely to me.

It's a fun dish in a mix-and-match sort of way, but it is too bitsy to have greatness. No matter how good the buffet, it's still a buffet.

Like Heston Blumenthal, John Campbell is a champion of long cooking at low temperatures. His fillet of beef is cooked for nearly an hour at just 60C. Any higher, says Campbell, and the collagen will toughen. The result is a piece of meat that appears almost raw yet feels and tastes "cooked", although this particular nub of meat is surprisingly sinewy. Teamed with braised rib, tender tongue and a puddle of soft, giving, pommes purée, it's a fairly macho order, made more civilised by a lively, fruity 96 Domaine Serene Pinot Noir from Oregon (£51) plucked from the lower pain threshold of the list.

According to the waiter, the John Dory, braised oxtail and saffron foam comes with tomato and bok choy. According to my palate, it comes with pink grapefruit segments and ruby chard. It is the sort of combination that proves opposites do not always attract.

A dessert of peach tarte fine is distinguished by good pastry, although the thrilling-sounding pepper ice-cream needs another good grind to make its presence felt. At least it had the courtesy to come to the table, whereas the cheese-orderer is taken to the cheese trolley – in my case, only to find it empty.

The kitchen has talent and style, but it's not breaking the new ground I expected. It's the dining-room that needs some WD40 – it's stiff and creaky when it should be flexible and smooth. The staff, who are at great pains to do things correctly, appear more intimidated by the enforced formality than the diners. It needs generosity, and hospitality, and human warmth and contact. It needs – we all know what it needs – it needs Sir Peter, of course, at the door. Someone to shake your hand, approve your choice of wine, enquire after your favourite racehorse, introduce you to the latest sculpture and congratulate you on your new handicap. Sadly, however, assuming the role of maitre' d, is not something that those listed in the Sunday Times Rich List feel the need to do in order to protect their investments – though it would certainly help to protect ours.