Food review: The Woodbridge, Telford

Service. Let's start with service. We'll forget the food – don't worry, we'll come back to it, we realise that's what we're here for – but for now, let's start with the high point.

Service at The Woodbridge, at Coalport, was fabulous. It was astonishing, breathtaking, fantastic, marvellous and terrific.

Our waitress, who, unhappily and inaccurately, was described on the receipt as 'Michael', was first class.

And, lest another takes her glory, we ought to offer a quick description.

A charming, witty brunette who was funnier than a night out with Catherine Tate was the high point of an otherwise reasonably enjoyable evening.

She told us what the best dishes were on the menu, laughed at all of our jokes and then promised to tell the chef that her service was better than his food. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have followed through on the last one so we'll do it for her.

It was. And while her name was clearly not the masculine Michael, she deserves all credit. So step forward, brunette waitress with an unknown name, this is your 15 minutes of Warhol-appointed fame.

She wasn't alone, either. Two other waitresses who visited our table were similarly accomplished, making our evening all the more delightful.

Ms Brunette was wrong about one thing, however. When it came to dessert, we sought her expert opinion. Should we go light, fluffy, mallowey pavlova with lime curd, summer berries – yes, in winter – and passion fruit coulis, or, more temptingly, apricot bakewell tart with mango sorbet.

"Pavlova, every time."

I took her word for it while my friend opted for the bakewell. Damn him. He was right and she was wrong. The pavlova was overcooked so it was a hard, sweet meringue with about as much mallow as granite. Calling it a pavlova would be like calling Vinnie Jones a soft lad. Gah. Two dinners in a week, two pavlovas and both of them rubbish.

But I've skipped so far ahead that I'm already in the next field in the next town in the next county. So let's go back to the place where all the best reviews start: the beginning.

And let's try to put indifferent pavlovas behind us, if we can. Though, to be honest, after two poor attempts in a week I'm thinking of launching a reader's competition to see who can make the best. So whizz them in to the usual address and don't skip the cream. We'll send back your Tupperware if you include a Self Addressed Envelope.

The Woodbridge is situated a mile downstream from the Ironbridge in picturesque Coalport. It was named after the wooden bridge – so guess that's how it got it's name: 'wood' – 'bridge'. . . geddit – that formerly connected the pub to the village, on the opposite bank of the river. Both were built around 1785 and the pub is filled with history and character.

Mind you, if you visit on a wild and wet Thursday night you're about as likely to delight in the view as a man who lives beneath a motorway bridge. On such occasions, the only option is to make a dash through the doors – and quick. So we did.

Like all the best pub-restaurants, there are plenty of nooks and crannies in which to hide, for those looking for an intimate or quiet evening. Elsewhere, there are open plan areas, for those who like to see and be seen.

The pub belongs to Brunning and Price, one of the region's smartest operators. It also owns The Fox, at Chetwynd Aston, and The Armoury, in Shrewsbury, and habitually offers good beers, preppy service and menus chockfull of food that people like to eat.

So there are stone dead classics like fish and chips or chicken liver pate with chutney and toast alongside more exotic pan-Asian flavours like satay roasted chicken thigh salad and Thai red sweet potato and aubergine curry. Regional and seasonal ingredients get a decent show, like Snowdonia Black Bomber cheddar or heritage tomatoes. In truth, there's much to admire and very little not to like about a menu that is all things to all people.

With a great selection of light bites for those popping in for a quick lunch, or who fancy a bite to eat while supping on a pint, and a great menu for kids, it's an everyman, woman and child kinda place.

And so to dinner. My friend ordered all the things I wanted to eat and I ordered all the things I thought would be interesting to review.

You can guess who came out best.

He started with a crispy squid salad with pineapple, cashew nuts and Nam Jim dressing.

It was lip-smackingly, fist-pumpingly, toe-tappingly good. Damn him. The squid had been lightly cooked – no rubbery texture here – and the dressings were packed full of zing zang flavours. It was the equivalent of a Cancan with the Trupa Millenium or a night out at the Moulin Rouge. Bravo.

My tarragon polenta with pickled wild mushroom and smoked paprika aioli had the potential to be just as good, but it wasn't.

The pickle was too acidic, the polenta under-seasoned. Polenta is great when it's crammed with flavour and as dull as a night on a broken-springed sofa when there's not enough. The ideas were good, the execution needed more refinement.

My friend's main was superlative. A big old slice of Snowdonia Black Bomber Cheddar, potato and onion pie with mixed greens and a thick gravy was joyous. The pie's pastry was delightful and the flavours were big and brassy.

My roasted lemon and thyme chicken breast with pappardelle pasta, wild mushroom, bacon and spinach was underwhelming.

The chicken was overcooked and the skin and bone blackened, making it a little bitter. And so was I, when I considered my friend's pie.

The mushroom and bacon was conspicuous by its relative absence though the pasta was fine. As with my starter, it was a nice idea that had been well conceived but which lost something in its execution. My friend looked across the table and laughed. "The pie was brilliant," he said. I kicked his shin. Winner winner chicken dinner – not this time.

Dessertgate finished us off. Ms Brunette told us pavlova was the winner and she was wrong – her only error of the night. It had been killed in the oven.

The bakewell, in contrast, was delicious. Buttery, nutty and with the right amount of sweet, sticky apricot, the accompanying mango sorbet was equally sublime. My friend took out a pair of shin guards he'd planned to wear later that evening at five-a-side. Then he looked across the table and laughed.

Our waitress asked us what we thought. 'Seven out of ten for the food and nine for the service,' we told her. Which rounds things up to a more-than-decent mark of eight.

The Woodbridge is a delightful pub-restaurant. It's in a thrilling venue, particularly during daylight hours when the views are a treat.

The menu is exceptional, the food was a tad inconsistent and the service was wonderful.

By Andy Richardson