What do you get when you cross a Michelin-starred performance with a Green Star ethos, South African soul, and a 240-acre Sussex stage set with edible hedgerows and honeybees?

You get Interlude

Even that feels like an understatement. Hidden within the sweeping woodlands and gardens of Leonardslee House, Interlude may call itself “a restaurant with rooms,” but that phrase barely hints at the sensory performance unfolding inside.

Here, the land doesn’t just inspire the food. It is the food

Chef Jean Delport, one of only a handful of South African chefs ever awarded a Michelin Star, conducts the kitchen with the intuitive rhythm of someone who knows when to let nature speak and when to step in. He doesn’t chase trends. Instead, he and his small team — including a gardener, a fermenter, a forager, and a front-of-house cast who know your wine pairing before you do — work in near-obsessive harmony with the land.

Each day, the surrounding Leonardslee estate becomes both larder and stage, where ingredients are foraged, preserved, and reimagined into courses that play out like acts in a deeply rooted theatrical production. Every element of the tasting menu is drawn, grown, or nurtured on site or nearby. What can’t be sourced locally simply doesn’t appear. That quiet restraint is what makes the experience feel wildly free.

And so the curtains rose on my very own Interlude performance

It began with a key. A heavy, brass invitation to slip into the Magnolia Suite upstairs — with large fireplaces, warm textures, and sweeping views of the estate below. It was a gentle prelude, offering a chance to slow my pace to that of the gardens: no rush, just rhythm.

Next came the gentle pop of a rosé champagne cork from the estate’s very own vineyard and the murmur of guests easing into the bar. I take my flute and glance around, unsure how this story will unfold. At Interlude, that’s the point — you’re not here to read the menu. You’re here to follow it.

The wine? A vintage Leonardslee Rosé Brut, matured on the estate for 30 months. Rose-gold in hue, with red berry and Turkish delight aromas, its palate sang with strawberry, nougat and grapefruit, finished with a soft, fine mousse that melted into the moment. The perfect overture to what was to come.

A trio of canapés starts the performance, each a delicate curtain-raiser for the wild, wondrous acts to come. The first thing that became abundantly clear – Chef Jean’s South African roots are subtly whispered through the British landscape on every plate — a culinary duet that sings across continents and seasons.

A homemade Marmite cracker with slaphakskeentjies (pickled sweet onions, in true South African fashion) felt almost mischievous. It’s quickly followed by a beetroot meringue crowned with goat’s curd smoked over ash, raspberry tuile, damson vinegar gel and a nasturtium leaf that’s not just garnish — it’s an edible flourish of drama. The final bite, a Jerusalem artichoke taco, surprises with aged Hamachi and a curry emulsion, edible flowers scattered like confetti.

From there, we move — not just to a different room, but a different world. At the entrance to the grand house, we’re handed ‘foraging maps’, not menus. The theatre deepens. Here, dinner is part storybook, part survival guide. A card is presented to us at the start of each dish, introducing a key ingredient, setting the stage for the course to come. We pause at the foraging station, a curated still life of plants, roots, oils and mushrooms plucked from the surrounding estate.

The message is clear: everything has a place

Preservation isn’t a buzzword here — it’s how the kitchen extends the harvest, coaxing new layers of flavour from what would otherwise fade with the seasons.

My opening act? A smoked celeriac tea, laced with wild leek oil, hedgerow vinegar and celeriac biltong. My guest’s version uses venison instead — from deer managed sustainably on the estate, a practice rooted in ecology as much as gastronomy. It’s earthy, wild, and umami-rich — a nod to the Bronze Age hedgerows that have fed people for millennia.
With our maps in hand and curiosity piqued, we entered the dining room for the main show. The scene: soft lighting, theatrical plating, and a service team so knowledgeable and passionate, they move like perfectly choreographed shadows.

The tasting menu itself begins – an evening-length immersion into land, memory, and method. Each course appears with its own spotlight, each bite foraged with purpose. Course after course, I watched my guest’s delight grow — wide-eyed, grinning, exclaiming at the theatre of it all. I wasn’t far behind, matching the sip-for-sip excitement of the wine pairings: a thrilling duet of South African complexity and British expression.

My favourite? A 2023 Chardonnay from Benguela Cove. Crisp, complex, and gently oaked, it’s a game-changer — enough to convert even the most stubborn chardonnay sceptic. And rest assured, you’ll wander through whites, rosés, reds and ports before the night is through, where each glass is chosen not just to match, but to echo the landscape on the plate.

First up on the main performance – oyster, but the star is Alexanders — a Roman-introduced plant that grows wild by the lakes. Once a staple, now almost forgotten, it returns to the spotlight here alongside oysters in an apple beurre blanc smoked with foraged oak chips, balanced with alexander oil and crowned with Exmoor caviar. A lesson in revival — and reverence.

And then, a scene-stealer: Rabbit Eats Carrot. It’s part satire, part ecosystem. Estate rabbit (or, for me, marinated carrot tofu) paired with the very terrain it lives on. A deep-fried piece sits under a smoky cloche on ‘grass’, followed by a carrot tart filled with mousse and preserved yolk, then a carrot-and-rabbit terrine and kimchi confit cups. It’s cheeky, it’s clever, it’s carnivorous poetry (or a plant-based one-act play if you prefer). The smallest mouthfuls carry the biggest messages — full-circle sustainability, rooted right here.

Interlude’s connection with its local producers shines next with a dish of Trenchmore beef tartare (or smoked beetroot for me), topped with nettle and alliums. Their relationship with a nearby Wagyu farm — where cows graze on apple pomace and fertilise the land they live on, is a testament to the team’s ethical sourcing. It’s not ‘local for the sake of it’. It’s about shared philosophy: good food grown well.

Then comes the course that makes you want to throw away your cutlery and dig in: bread. But this isn’t just any bread. It’s mosbolletjie, a South African bun traditionally made with grape must — here, reimagined using juice from their own vineyard to activate the yeast. Aniseed-laced and burnished with fermented honey, it’s served alongside homemade butter aged in the salt chamber, roasted over embers before being theatrically finished tableside by Chef Jean himself with shallot reduction, raspberry vinaigrette, biltong spice, and a mushroom garum that delivers a knockout umami hit. No rules. No pretence. Just tear, dip, lick fingers. Heaven.

The scallop course turns scraps into showstoppers. Every part of the hand-dived scallop is honoured — the roe dehydrated into dust, the trimmings turned into a roasted vanilla scallop sauce. Burnt butter-poached (or beef fat for meat eaters), the scallop is nestled on XO and pumpkin purée, finished with XO oil at the table. It’s a dish about second chances — and turning leftovers into leads. After all, it’s often the overlooked that steal the scene.

The aged turbot follows, paired with wild garlic, potjie mussels and cucumber oil. It’s rich, green, and deeply nostalgic. The wild garlic — a reliable sign of ancient woodland — is celebrated in sauce form, while the potjie, a nod to South African fire cooking, brings everything back to the flame.

The penultimate savoury course is a masterclass in mushrooms. Foraged chanterelles, king oyster, and lionsmane (the latter cooked on the braai) are served with suckling pig haunch or a glistening lobster tail. A mushroom and yoghurt purée, walnut-birch miso, spicy rice with acorn béarnaise and a jus made from offcuts complete the plate. It’s earthy, smoky, soulful — a dish that feels like the forest floor after rain. The team’s new experiment in homegrown mushrooms adds another layer of intrigue, ensuring the future of their fungi is just as exciting as the present. Watching the kitchen learn, evolve, and adapt like this? It’s what makes this place feel so alive.

Desserts arrive like encores, each more dramatic than the last. A sloe berry palate cleanser with Leonardslee gin and rhubarb. A Sussex saffron dream infused with fermented amasi (made from raw milk fermented on the windowsill) and rooibos honey ice cream, aglow with golden hues. Then a blackberry celebration — white chocolate, woodruff parfait, and nitro-frozen yoghurt, served in a puff of smoke and pure delight.

The finale is a reimagined South African favourite – peppermint crisp tart with bespoke chocolate from local artisan J.Cocas in Hassocks, using single-origin beans. It’s joy in spoonfuls, alongside Amarula cream and infused with water mint gathered from the lake’s edge. A dish that bridges continents, memories, and botanical precision.

We end where we began — back in the house living space, this time by the fire, sipping on a late-night port, for one last woodland flourish: a handcrafted box of foraged-infused chocolates. Acorns, walnuts, eucalyptus bark — each a nod to trees that have watched over this land for centuries, now reimagined in ganache and caramel, their essence captured in a single bite.

Final thoughts

There’s a beautiful irony to Interlude.

A restaurant named for pause, yet so full of life. Every leaf, lichen, and late-summer berry has been carefully chosen, preserved, and honoured — not for extravagance, but for meaning. The honey is sweetened by wild heather, the eggs laid steps from the kitchen, the tea made with celeriac smoked on local wood. There is thoughtfulness here, yes. But more than that, there is a purpose. Each course is a story of restoration, of revival, of land and legacy.

And that, perhaps, is the real magic. This isn’t just a meal — it’s a Michelin-starred journey back to the roots. A Green Star reminder that brilliance lies not only in technique, but in care. It’s in the deer that roam freely until respectfully harvested. In the bread that rises on grapes grown just beyond the window. In the saffron, the mushrooms, the mint — foraged, fermented, preserved, reborn.

We returned to the Magnolia Suite with full bellies and fuller hearts. The fire was crackling, the linen cool, the stillness almost sacred. Outside, the trees stood tall in the moonlight, keepers of stories centuries old. And inside, we slept — not just content, but connected. To land. To flavour. To something bigger.

An interlude, indeed — and one I won’t forget.

W:Restaurant Interlude
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T: 0330 123 5894

Written by Emma Blunt for Luxuria Lifestyle International