The mill stream runs down from the high chase where the wild orchids are. Cutting its course through the ochre-stained clay, it tumbles to the green silence of the Mells river to mix in torpid eddy beneath the roots of ancient larches. There’s wild garlic in the air, wood smoke and the sound of silent vole feet amongst the blind daffodils. These are the Somerset levels, the tablelands of ancient Mendips, black-tipped Quantocks and the soft mudstone of the Polden Hills.

But we weren’t here for the poetry of the place – at least not solely – nor the purple prose that this landscape drains piteously from simple food writers. We’d come to eat, more specifically to nose out local restaurants that had managed to escape the gravitational pull of Bruton’s double-Michelined (trad and green) uber-resto, Osip. A recent appearance on the Great British Menu had given South Petherton’s Holm – courtesy of its personable Chef Director, Nicholas Balfe – sufficient exit velocity so off we headed like giddy Katy Perry gastronauts to check out the newest addition to Andy Oliver’s constellation of chefs.

A warm Bath-stone exterior of impeccable Georgian symmetry gives little away street side but once through the door Holm opens up into a light, airy space. The entire double front has been quarried out to reveal half Venetian warehouse, half NYC loft (with a final, if mathematically impossible, half given over to Bauhaus simplicity and the intricate beauty of raw plaster). Brutal. Daring. Fresh. All that’s left of Regency gentility is the central fireplace stack hiding a glam butlers station come wine gallery behind. It’s the historical singularity around which the whole – kitchen, dining room and sitting area – gently orbits.

We were shown across the industrial terrazzo of a polished concreate floor by smiling and spry waiter types. Destination – a table intelligently set aside for amateur dog handlers. Discretely siloed at the front, it came with a chic, carpeted Fido-carpark area where the hound could laze, stretch and snuffle without fear of annoying fellow diners. Thoughtful, appreciated and no doubt necessary in this neck of the woods. Much to our consternation, another dog arrived soon afterwards and was shown to a table centre stage. Canine one-upmanship? But it was a pom-pom of a thing. Not a real dog Fido thought, as he snuggled down again to dream of bone-marrow consommé or whatever it is that proper dogs dream of in good restaurants.

With the pooch snoozing, we settled on a very good Franz & Friends Grüner Veltliner 2023 with which to read the menu. I failed to notice Sybille Kuntz’s Orange Riesling 2021 marooned over the page otherwise might well have been tempted (being a fan of Sybille Kuntz’s winemaking rather than Orange per se …). But the Grüner was very good, perfect temperature and sufficiently light but engaging for an aperitif. In fact, so taken was I that I managed to order a case of six 2022s from the good folk at Hennings whilst my dining companion was in the loo. All with a click of a button and only a flicker of judgement from Fido and the old money away yonder cradling their, by now fractious, pom-pom.

Tales of Holm’s Westcombe Cheddar fries having already reached us via a network/self-help group of semi-hysterical Insta fans, we ordered them as a sort of hearty amuse bouche. Despite having no real grasp of what they might be, we remained cautiously optimistic if only for the waiter’s knowing approval when we ordered them. Still, cheesy chips being a frankly dismal affair fit only for soaking up too much industrial lager in Blackpool ‘discothèques’, we remained warry. What arrived were delicious souffléd panisse creations, golden crusted, bejewelled with a sweet-sour-umami walnut ketchup and topped with a generous curly wig of Westcombe’s finest. Light and utterly scrumptious, they had enough oily richness to match the Grüner’s pea-shoot-and-gravel charms.

Our first starter – Pork, Anchovies, Crispy Capers, Rocket – came from the unadorned-noun school of menu writing. It similarly gave little away but revealed itself to be thin slices of deeply porcine flesh, lightly cotto-ed, with a good marbling of sweet ivory fat. Crusty nonpareilles and a skirt of crisp greenery added pep to taste and texture: simple and hugely effective. It was matched with another plate offering more baroque styling – a beautifully composed bitter-leaf salad of charred pear set off by the dun nubbliness of Jerusalem artichokes and candied walnuts. A tangle of flavours that combined perfectly when forked together, it was clearly the product of many an evening of group tasting round the pass.

We opted for glasses of the house white to carry us on to the main course. A serviceable Cooperativa Campani Falanghina (2023), it had more textural play than real character but was pleasant and good value at just over a fiver. A house wine should be quietly good not challenging, consistent, versatile and real value, so to folk used to warm glasses of barely potable Spanish white for toupee-spinning prices, this was really rather a happy glass if not the most thrilling bottle in the rack.

Still, I felt genuinely thankful and rather over emotional about it – a second glass at lunch is rarely a good idea – as my Roscoff onion tart arrived. It was a generous, caramelised Tatin of a thing, sweet with a well-judged thread of thyme running through the hum of buttery pastry and charred allium. Its fragrant stickiness was nicely off-set by the milky jade of soft Stilton cream just beginning to slump into a sauce of sorts under the warmth of the plate. A corsage of blousy radicchio scooped up the now-melted cheese brilliantly, bringing a touch more welcome bitterness to proceedings.

Its opposite number was a venison lasagne served with cornichons. Deconstruction is a term best left in the library, shelved somewhere between Cyberfeminism and Existential Angst. Its culinary incarnation is so often a misstep, a carefully composed dish being almost always more than the sum of its parts. But the modesty of this little number was a triumph: one large drape of good homemade pasta hiding a deeply savoury venison ragu cut with crème fraiche and the vinegar shrill of little pickles. We had no need of accompaniments, which is a shame as they sounded promising: Pink Fur Apple Potatoes with Truffle Mayonnaise, and Hispy Cabbage with Miso. Nevertheless, having gawked shamelessly as platters of the stuff sailed past, we pronounced them as good looking as they sounded.

We’d an eye instead for pud, a Bread ‘n Butter Pudding with Milk Ice Cream having outmanoeuvred both a Brownie Ice Cream and a plate of ewe’s milk Wigmore with ancient-grained crackers in the running. Not exactly a radical menu concept, B&B pud, but having become a Monkey Bread obsessive in NYC over a decade ago I was thrilled to see it here doused in crème anglaise, in all its syrupy, nutmeggy and caramelised pistachio-ey glory.

Fido didn’t want to leave by the time we had finished spooning in the last mouthful of monkey and milk. We weren’t entirely sure we wanted to either. Eventually we retraced our steps across the New York come Veneto interior, trailing superlatives and full-tummied bonhomie behind us. Stellar, we thought, if not (yet) a Star.

2 courses from a set lunch plus a pud to share and a couple of glasses on wine came to £49 a head. 

Note: we had lunch a couple of weeks before Holm’s terrace opened for summer but I’ve seen pics – looks great, just made for Grüner sipping and panisse-chip bothering.