The George is a nice enough hotel for staying in, but it is let down by barely competent serving staff in the restaurant and a chef lacking in both imagination and (apparently) tastebuds. (Top tip: if you don’t think there’s enough room on the table for something, don’t put it down there.) The chicken liver paté I had as a starter looked like it had been dropped from a great height onto a pile of indifferent salad. Not only that, but the two meagre wafers of melba toast were barely enough to contain a single scraping. Not only that, but the salad was swimming in a horribly pungent mustard dressing; the underside of the paté was coated with the stuff, and I had to scrape about half of it off to get rid of its flavour. The leg of lamb that followed was better, but not much above the level of pub food. At breakfast the next morning I had scrambled eggs, and they were dry, rubbery, and flavourless. Conclusion: stay at the hotel by all means, just don’t eat there.