Ambitious food in a stunning setting, but falls just short of its rivals

If you could produce a chef by combining body parts of Heston Blumenthal and Jamie Oliver, what would he produce? Roast lamb ice cream? Snail tagliatelle? Chocolate brownies cooked sous-vide? Not an enticing prospect perhaps, but the true answers should in theory be found in the devastatingly idyllic village of Skenfrith, Monmouthshire, inside the Welsh border by a matter of metres. The 17th-century coaching inn is now restored as The Bell (sorry, 'the bell', as their capitals-free website insists), and currently rests its culinary reputation in the hands of head chef Rupert Taylor who counts both The Fat Duck and Fifteen as his training grounds. As such, he's one of a new breed of British chefs who have known nothing but the era of the TV chef, and have only read of the years when fine British food meant cutting your own chips rather than raking them from an oven tray.

You could of course argue that a Sunday lunch doesn't offer a young gun the chance to give of his best. Until, that is, you met someone who has been to The Bell's big rival and near clone that is - I speak of the Felin Fach Griffin, words which bring a flutter to the heart of anyone in search of a Sunday roast cooked with true flare and imagination, a place whose beef and lamb can almost be spooned into the mouth.

The basics are certainly there at The Bell. There's a handsome list of suppliers chalked up on the wall, including the enigmatic 'William' who brings in the game (William, can we talk partridge sometime?) and both a decent wine list and local ales to complement a menu which should please both granny and young Masterchef oik. The trouble is, I just couldn't help feeling there was a gap between the execution and ultimate satisfaction.

Take the mackerel for starters: delicately marinaded and served with a decent aioli and salad from the kitchen garden but just lacking in contrast, a bit of acidity from some pickle maybe. And even if we didn't mind the rather idiotic granite slabs, the waiting staff sure aren't keen on them.

It's the same story with the main courses. The beef is cooked beautifully, but doesn't have quite the depth of flavour their great rival manages, and the pork certainly doesn't do anything special. And most frustrating of all was some shambolic plating-up - I'd love to know what Heston used to say when he saw beef going out without the horseradish and pork without the crackling. And at £25 a head we're surely getting to territory where the staff should remember roughly who is having what, rather than storming up to the table and shouting PORK, COD, BEEF as if they were Alex Ferguson commanding a tactical reorganisation from the Old Trafford touchline. And if that wasn't enough to disturb the peace, the three rounds of plate-smashing certainly were. Were they trying to get rid of those bloody granite slabs once and for all?

And yet this IS a chef with real flare and ability. It's just that you have to get to the dessert to see it come through. Whether The Fat Duck can lay claim to the ice cream recipes we can't say, but the spiced carrot accompaniment to the unctuous chocolate and walnut marquise (think gooey brownie) is stunning, and if there's one sign that great things will come of this restaurant it sits on the plate of those who order rhubarb crumble. A slither of caremalised rhubarb might sound nothing special, but it's a brilliant touch, a hint of innovation, even a bit of humour. Heston would be proud, but his acolytes aren't quite threatening his crown yet.