At the risk of stepping on "M"'s toes, I too live in the "Velvet Ditch", aka Tunbridge Wells. Considering the undoubted affluence of the town, we are not particularly well-served by quality eateries, although the ones we are priveleged to have are certainly top class: Hotel du Vin, Thackeray's and Signor Franco would stand up to most competition in their markets.So, when I heard that a new place had opened - purporting to be aiming for the sky - I thought, "Thank you - about time".

First, a bit of history. What is now the Summit Hotel, if memory (but not personal experience) serves, used to be a Department of Social Security "sink" hotel. So, the refurb that the owners have carried out is nothing short of miraculous. Interior decor? 10/10. Wouldn't be out of place in the company of The Sanderson or The St. Martins' This, though, is where the similarity with those esteemed hostelries sadly ends. If the owners had paid half as much attention to the service and cooking as they have to the decor, I suspect I would still - the morning after - be basking in a post-Bacchanalean glow. I'm not, and here's why. On entering the building - a /Hotel/, remember - there's no Reception staff - just an unstaffed (but quite nice thankyouverymuch) Purbeck Marble Reception Desk. Luckily, I have 20:20 vision, so I saw the cleverly-disguised sign and arrow pointing downstairs to the Bar, Lounge and Brasserie. Good old Cub Scout orienteering badge - knew it would come in handy one day. On desceding, you enter the tri-lobed eating and drinking zone: a bar - too small; the lounge - very comfy; and the Brasserie itself. I should have been alerted to what was going to happen next: when I called to make the reservation, it was strongly suggested that I'd better make it 8 rather than 8.30. The dreaded table rotation was suspected, but the charming man on the phone assured me this wasn't the case - "we just need to manage the throughput in the kitchen . . . ." O-K. So - telephone report over - and needless to say, nobody offered to take our coats.

We were shown into the bar - which with eight people already in residence was packed. I had to squeeze through to the counter. Our aperitifs were fine, but I do hate the new practice of "like-it-or-lump-it" double measures - for two reasons. (1) What if you're driving? A large Vodka & Tonic means you could have just one standard glass of wine with your meal. And (2) If I want a bloody single, I'll have a bloody single - I'm the guest, remember? And thence, into the brasserie. Decor great. And then the menus arrived (without the Wine List) - "oh, sorry, I forgot, I'm new you see". When you're paying from £13 (Mushroom thingie in a sandwich of puff pastry) to £18.50 (Fillet steak in by-the-numbers reduction, natch) I'm afraid that "oh, sorry, I forgot, I'm new you see" just ain't good enough. The starters were a warning of things to come - beautifully presented, but flavourless. I had a chicken terrine on a bed of leaves with a pink peppercorn sauce. At the risk of libel, I just can't believe that the terrine was made in the kitchen. It tasted of nothing, and bore a resemblance to the sort of portion-controlled "posh starters" that you can buy in M&S for a quid fifty each. My guest, "Pulcinella", had - wait for it - grilled goat's cheese on toast with a slick of, apparently "very nice" dandelion sauce. Dandelion sauce? Would you know what Dandelion Sauce is supposed to taste like? Anyway - top marks for using "in-season" ingredients; if my lawn is anything to go by, I would imagine they're giving the damn things away at New Covent Garden. Oh yes, nearly forgot - £6 for the cheese and £7.50 for the pate. And no bread or butter offered. Which brings us to the mains. As previously mentioned, this place isn't exactly cheap. So, to have the nerve to charge £2.50 for each veg is bordering on usury. Pulcinella had the mushroom thingie, and I must say that the puff pastry was top notch. She wasn't too impressed by the rest of it. Ka-ching: £13 to you, madam. I had the Fanned Barbary Duck Breast with a blackberry sauce. Oops - so much for buying in season. Two big boo-boos here: firstly, the chef went for size rather than flavour with the duck. It was huge, but utterly devoid of flavour. Even though it had been - bizarrely for the nature of the dish - honey and sesame seed glazed. Secondly, and a Cardinal Sin, this, the reduction was in no way duck-related. Sorry to be a bore, but I know about these things: at the Palme D'Or in Cannes, I once had the most sublime duck consomme imaginable. I suspect that a whole gaggle of the blighters had been simmered down to produce about half a pint of pure duckiness. It tasted of *duck* - pure, unadulterated Donald (and Daffy, Daisy, Huey, Duey and Louie to boot). Here, though, the jus tasted of beef bones. Nothing wrong with that - i f y o u ' r e h a v i n g b e e f - but if you're having duck - you want your meal to taste of duck. Ka-ching: £16, matey. Veg-wise, I had two-fifty worth of soggy truffle mash (with too many chopped chives) and Pulci had 15 Kenyan beans. Wine-wise we had an excellent 2000 Puilly Fume, but at £22 it was a bit of a piss-take. We eschewed pud, and went straight for coffee. I had seen a mammoth expresso factory in the hallway, so at least, I thought, you can't go wrong with a double espresso and a dash of hot milk. "Cafitierre only, sir, the machine is a missing a part and we can't source it." I won't bore you with the bill for two, but sufficed to say it was well north of £100 when you added the two Remy Martin's with the coffee. And for that money, I expect a great meal. This wasn't.

You may not believe this, but I dearly want this place to succeed - TW needs it - but at this rate, it's unlikely. We left, a ton-upwards lighter in the wallet, and gazed wistfully, across the top of the Common, at Thackeray's. "The Truffle Pig"