"Love" is not strong enough, however, to describe what I felt about l'Enclume in Cartmel, a restaurant that I would eagerly promise to honour and obey as well. I am breathless with admiration, respect and awe for the skill, imagination and restraint of the 20-odd plates of Simon Rogan's food that I ate in my two visits.

I might have eaten that many at a sitting had I taken the gourmand menu, but I chose the more modest "Introduction" menu of nine or ten dishes, and went back the following week when the menu changed, and had it again. In Britain, l'Enclume is comparable only with The Fat Duck at Bray. It is similarly bright and understated inside (with the addition of stunning views of Cartmel Priory), with friendly, low-key service (even occasionally shading into "Northern sarky"), and is driven by a passion for rare ingredients, intangible essences and the gentle forcing of ancient boundaries. The difference here is that while you leave the Duck full of the memory of fireworks and trickery, freezing nitrogen and space dust, you leave l'Enclume remembering sea bass, John Dory, brill, pigeon and lamb. The Fat Duck is the best restaurant in Britain, but there are those who will prefer l'Enclume.

I began with "Lakeland slate, five contrasts to get you going", which was a tongue-tip of melon (sweet), lime jelly (sour), salt-cured salmon (salt), beetroot foam (bitter) and slow-braised veal (umami). Peppered Parmesan "French fries" were crunchy, deep-fried polenta sticks with pineapple foam and thyme, all peppery at the front of the tongue and thymy at the back, dancing in-between. Scallops came with a tiny pulp of Good King Henry (a spinachy local herb) and also ginger and green-tea foam. And yet, whichever way one combined each mouthful, it was still all about the fat, nutty scallop.

Listen to the poetry of the following courses: "poached brill, English mace, wild tree spinach, pickle from then mixed with a bit of now"; "roasted bass, calamint flavours, swish"; "Mr Little's beef fillet, cepe Madeleine St Zita would be proud of, leaf of galiad"; "pigeon from Bresse less than 60 degrees, liquorice, hazelnut, astringent caper juices". If not quite Wordsworthworthy it is worthy, at the very least, of Christina Rossetti.

The bass came cracking from the nougatine at the peak of its form, sweetened, not mocked, by the caramel. The cepe Madeleine was delicate Prousty Frenchness whiffling through an English wood. Mr Little's beef was wrapped in jamon, which kept it sweet but lent a salty finish of its own to liven the mild fillet. The pigeon emerged from its long, 58-degree bask with its protein denatured but its cell-structure unbroken, which is why they do it, if you're interested, and the caper juices followed in a test tube. But for all the bollocks, it is the memory of the bass and the beef and the bird that is juicing the back of my molars now, weeks later.

Best of all perhaps, were four "burnt cream pots" flavoured, respectively, with wild mountain sorrel, red pimento, verbena and saffron honey. That I will never encounter them for the first time again is truly a cause for regret. I went back to repeat the experience anyway, but the pots were gone with the winds and leaf-drop of autumn, replaced by "asparagus cream with no cream, raspberry Turkish" and then a sensational distillation of Christmas that Rogan called "melting fig fondant, cassia bark, icy fennel, spice". I don't mind when a chef cooks better than I can, but when he writes better than I do, I feel funny.