As spring begins to stretch its limbs and Londoners eye the exits for a weekend jaunt, the usual suspects present themselves: the South Downs, the Suffolk coast, the Surrey Hills, rolling and reliable as ever. But less widely touted — indeed, even to some of us living within reach, entirely unbeknownst — is Surrey’s so-called ‘Golden Triangle, the sought-after enclave of Cobham, Esher and Weybridge, known for exclusive private estates, silly-sized houses, and top-tier schools.
At one of its more discreet corners sits Oxshott, a village that manages the neat trick of feeling both modest and monied. This is, after all, the stomping ground of Premier League footballers, hedge funders and the sort of people who refer to their house as “the place in the country” despite it being within striking distance of the A3. Yet Oxshott carries its wealth lightly. There’s a village green charm here, even if the procession of Range Rovers suggests otherwise.
At its heart — and very much worth the detour — is The Victoria. A pub, yes — a grand Edwardian red-brick, no less — but one with serious culinary credentials and the sort of polish that elevates it comfortably above the gastropub mêlée. Think less muddy boots, more well-heeled loafers. It wears its three AA rosettes with disarming modesty, thanks to head chef Daniel Lee, whose cooking manages that neat trick of feeling both refined and entirely at ease in its surroundings — fine dining, without the fuss.
And so it was that, on a bright, breezy Sunday, La Famille Blanc pointed the car “the other way” up the A3 and descended upon this most civilised of outposts, lured by the promise of a new menu and, let’s be honest, the restorative powers of a proper roast.
Inside, it is all terribly conducive. Immaculate interiors in magenta and racing green, exposed brick, polished mahogany; a space that feels both curated and convivial. The bar hums like a choreographed film set, and walking through to the main dining room, we’re immediately struck by a floral installation that blooms theatrically overhead – an Instagram trap, perhaps, but a rather lovely one, and perfectly in step with the season.
We’ve barely sat down, armed with a pint of ale from the bar (me, that is), when the snacks come calling. Prawn toast might raise an eyebrow in a setting that leans quintessentially British, but here it is light, crisp, and entirely persuasive, flexing the kitchen’s range. More comforting was the rarebit: Guinness and Marmite folded into molten cheese, perched atop a crumpet. Deeply savoury, faintly ridiculous, and utterly delicious. It was all I could do to resist the Scotch egg. The danger, of course, is in such enthusiastic “front loading” – by the time starters appeared, there was a looming suspicion we may have overcommitted.
A foolish concern, as it turned out. The starters are not to be missed. An artichoke tart – eschewing the usual shortcrust for something finer – arrived with crisp porcini and a confit egg yolk. It crumbled, yes, but in that pleasing, textural way that suggests it was always meant to. The mushroom parfait, meanwhile, was its perfect counterpoint: whipped into a cloud, offset with sweet-and-sour onions and served, as tradition dictates, with toasted brioche.
The a la carte boasts several Michelin-worthy turns, but Sunday lunch is a ritual, and here it is treated with due reverence. While the menu flirts with indulgence (lobster thermidor makes a suitably showy appearance), the roast is the main event. Order for two, and it arrives as a family-style platter; steak-thick slices of marbled sirloin – “cooked pink, sir”, as it should be – whole roasted carrots, crispy roasties and a Yorkshire pudding of near-comical proportions. Cauliflower cheese and greens complete the picture. You can, if so inclined, escalate matters to a côte de boeuf or a whole Cob Farm chicken, but we remained happily orthodox with the Lake District Farms dry-aged Hereford sirloin. I mean, why gild the lily?
A dedicated children’s menu – fish and chips, burger, tomato pasta, of course – did sterling work for our Little Nest of Vipers, though she was far more taken with the mozzarella sticks and then, wide-eyed, the grandeur of the roast platter itself. The burger, inevitably, returned home largely untouched.
Atmosphere is that elusive thing, but here it lands just right. Every table is occupied, from couples to generational family groups celebrating an occasion. There is a reassuring choreography to the room – waiters ferrying platters with effortless ease, glasses topped up without fuss, a low hum of contentment punctuated by the occasional clatter of cutlery. It feels busy, but never frantic; attentive, but never intrusive.
Desserts lean into gastropub classics – a rum-soaked sticky toffee pudding, apple crumble, a rhubarb trifle, even a playful deconstruction of a Marathon bar (never Snickers, thankyouverymuch) – but on a day of blue skies and that first real hint of warmth, there was only one choice. The latest addition to the menu, a strawberry and lime pavlova: a crisp, tutu-like meringue piled high with cream and fruit, sharpened by a lemon verbena sorbet. Bright, fresh, and exactly what the season ordered.
What followed was not so much a necessity as a strategy: a long walk, bleating child notwithstanding. Fortunately, Oxshott obliges. The village feel extends beyond the pub, and the nearby common beckon with sandy, pine-scented trails and gentle climbs to viewpoints that remind you why Surrey is, in fact, rather lovely. And then, home. No supper required – perhaps just a mug of something hot and the Antiques Roadshow to round things off.
Weekends in Surrey, it turns out, don’t get much better than this.
The Victoria, High Street, Oxshott, Leatherhead KT22 OJR. Open Wednesday – Sunday, for lunch, dinner and drinks. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.thevictoriaoxshott.com.
