Sunday best

Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work; but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God. In it thou shalt not do any work, thou nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor the stranger that is within thy gates. For in six days the Lord made the heaven and earth, the sea and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day. Wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day, and hallowed it.

CURIOUS things, the commandments. While the ordinances against murder and thieving are written off in four words, and against the other thing in five, it takes 95 words (Exodus 20: 8-11) to sort out Sundays.

Whether Audrey and the late George Pagendam were particularly into Lord's Day observance is unknown, but for 41 years - with the possible exception of 12 weeks in 1991 - the pub which they owned at Moulton was a success story 24/6. Never on Sunday.

Mrs Pagendam sold the Black Bull last year. On April 1, the date doubtless coincidental, it served Sunday lunch for more or less the first time since 1965.

Moulton's just off the A1 near Scotch Corner, the Bull's annual encomium in the Good Food Guide as familiar as the restored Pullman carriage, named Hazel, which stands, sidetracked, out the back.

First footing, we headed that way after Palm Sunday service, a little wager en route on how much the fixed price three-course lunch would be. The Boss guessed £20 and erred by precisely 5p.

The car park was pretty full, mainly 4x4s and things and a low-slung sporty number called a Caterham 7, which sounded like someone should begin a campaign to free it.

Propped out the back was a single push bike, which probably belonged to the KP. In cricketing circles these days, KP is the swashbuckling Mr Pietersen; in catering, it's still the humble kitchen porter.

The Moulton, come to think, was also the name of a revolutionary sort of velocipede in the 1970s, though probably it owed nothing to a small village in North Yorkshire. Anyone know what happened to it?

The pub's now owned by Philip Barker, whose three other places in Yorkshire include the Malt Shovel in Boroughbridge and the Balmoral Hotel in Harrogate where the bedrooms, somewhat oddly, are said to be vital to anyone wishing to overindulge in the restaurant.

At Moulton he also plans 15 cottages and a function room out the back, aimed particularly at weddings. Bull by the horns, goodness knows what the locals will make of it.

Physically, little seems so far to have changed. The bar still serves keg beer only, though the Malt Shovel boasts cask ale so the Bull may yet get real. Happily there was no music, either, not even Ride On, Ride On in Majesty.

They showed us to Hazel, who in a slightly unsprung sort of a way seemed pretty pleased to see us. An original little sign on the side of the carriage instructs that in case of emergency, access should be gained to the wrecking tool cupboard.

What's a wrecking tool, for heaven's sake? Isn't it a contradiction in terms?

It was pretty busy, a well spoken feller from Newcastle suggesting to his companion that the atmosphere would further be improved by the addition of railway noises.

"Diddley-dum," he said, and then "diddley-dum" again and then, gloriously, "Too-too!" His companion looked on aghast, silenced by the two o' clock flyer.

Another diner, the one who snitched to manager Andrew Gedney about the identity of the mystery diner, was a fish merchant called Pascoe. Probably his partner was Dalziel.

The fixed menu also offers two courses for £16.95. The Sunday lunch carte is probably £10-£15 more expensive, though "Alan Murray's pork sausages" and mash are £6.95. Mr Murray's the butcher up in Barton; he does a very good pork sausage.

Starters from the "prix fixe" included roast shallot and Roquefort tart, home cured gravadlax with dill and mustard creme fraiche - The Boss thought it very satisfactory - and galia melon and parma ham set off very smartly with a fig compote.

The windows were dirty, arguably filthy. The Boss said they probably couldn't afford a window cleaner, which they couldn't if they had our hell-for-leather guy. Mr Gadney said it was something to do with Peugeot, which we didn't quite understand. They're looking into the problem, anyway.

The roast rib eye was really very good indeed - thick, succulent, plentiful and robustly flavoured. The Yorkshire pudding was fine, the vegetables a bit unimaginative, but that's a root problem these days.

The fixed menu also included roast sea bass with peppers, tomatoes, mussels, shallots, olives and wine. Steak and kidney feuillette (?) with mash and poached sea trout fillet with fennel, mange tout, asparagus and a garlic butter sauce.

Lovely complements, she thought, and followed from the carte - sin on Sunday - with hot orange liqueur pancakes. In truth she's not much fussed about the pancakes, but he's had the sauce before and it's sensational. There was a wholly sybaritic Turkish delight ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, too.

The service was so cordially, unobtrusively agreeable that we remembered - it isn't always the case - to leave a little something. Cross-your-palm Sunday.

It had all been very pleasant, Sunday best for some time. If not a commandment, then a recommendation, anyway.

STILL the most welcome of oases in that pretty barren part of the world, the Surtees Arms at Ferryhill Station holds a beer festival from April 26-28. On Saturday April 28 they also have a vocalist called Elise, billed as "live". The lass will doubtless be delighted to hear it.

REPORTING last week on the renamed Riverside Restaurant at Startforth - across the river from Barnard Castle - we wondered how the name began.

It's a corruption of "street ford" says Dr David Dry, a Yorkshireman who's lived in Startforth these past 37 years and still believes himself to be in the Ridings. The 1974 local government reorganisation says otherwise.

The Roman road ran from Binchester fort (Vinovium) to Bowes Castle, running past where the ruins of Barnard castle now stand. The street ford was at the bottom.

LAST week's column also incredulously noted that the singer Mel Torme was the late Thora Hird's son-in-law and wondered if it could be true. It is. A reader - who's e-mail, with apologies, has been mislaid - confirms that Torme married Jeanette Scott, the actress's daughter.

DINING the week previously at the Blackwell Grange Hotel in Darlington offered the excuse to reproduce a 1972 photograph of Willie Whitelaw and entourage during Northern Ireland peace talks held at the hotel and to wonder who the others were.

Elizabeth Sayers in Spennymoor is so sure that the one in the drainpipes is this columnist, albeit a little younger, that she's written a mini-epic poem entitled "Mike on the way up."

No wonder Sharon fell for you

I'm sure your folks were so proud, too...

Possibly, possibly. Sadly, however, it is a case of mistaken identity.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew the name of the first Indian restaurant the Romans opened in Northumberland.

Vindoolanda, of course.