issue 5 - Viva Lewes

Photograph: Alex Leith-
The Flying Fish
Great seafood tucked away in Denton
It’s my birthday, and I’m being driven to a mystery
location by my girlfriend, where I am to
have lunch with my close family. She drives me
through the Cuilfail Tunnel, turns onto the A27,
then down the A26 off the Beddingham roundabout.
Pretty soon we are on the outskirts of…
Newhaven? I look at her. She smiles. Then she
turns left into what seems like a residential estate.
Where the hell are we going?
The Flying Fish appears on our right, an incongruous
whitewashed farmhouse building amid
all the 70s suburban Lego houses. I’ve never
heard of the place. Suzie did a recce last week.
“It’s run by this French guy from Dieppe,” she
says. “He goes on the ferry every week to do a
lot of the shopping. They do great fish. Cooked
French style.” We wander in, and have a little
look around. There are a few rooms, including a
restaurant section with whitewashed walls, fishrelated
bric-a-brac and four tables. It looks like a
seafood restaurant, but it doesn’t look studiedly
like a seafood restaurant. Which means they’ve
pulled off their deception well. I immediately
like the place.
There’s a deck outside with more tables, overlooked
by a sloping lawn, but the weather’s iffy
so we settle inside. The others arrive: we are a
party of five. Mother, father, brother, girlfriend,
me. These guys know me pretty well, between
them. Coincidentally I’m wearing a stripy blue
and white sweatshirt. We order three portions
of moules marinieres as starters. I order bream
as a main course. My brother goes for a steak.
The others go for a second starter, two cassoulets
and a pancake with gruyere cheese and
scallops.
Mussels are one of the most entertaining things
to eat. Scooping up the juice with the shell, then
slurping it down your throat as you pull the
meat off the bottom shell with your teeth. Then
you chew: the combination of tastes is great. Dip
up any surplus juice with French bread, spread
with unsalted butter. My mother’s particularly
quick-handed. Luckily she’s soon sated, as I’m
sharing a bowl with her.
I’m disappointed with the look of my bream,
and a mouthful of scales after my first fork-dig
doesn’t help. The saffron-yellowed rice is too
dry, as is the spinach on top. Dieppe? It tastes
like it’s come from Tescos. Sod’s law, then, that
everyone else’s food is sensational. I try everything
out. I particularly love the cassoulet: mixed
seafood in a rich sauce covered by a gratin and a
lid of Emmental cheese. My parents don’t even
put on their ‘I could have done it better at home
for a fraction of the cost’ faces. Which is just as
well, as they’re paying. £82, with two bottles of
wine, for the record. The Flying Fish? A wellkept
secret. Until now, that is. V Alex Leith
Denton Road, Denton, Newhaven,
012 515 0
W W W. V i V a l E W E S . C o M
f o o d
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