RETSINA: YOU ORDERED CHIPS INNIT ?

In normal circumstances words that would be aural Manna to Dos Hermanos but, when you're made to feel as if you're crashing a private party, sounded more like an order to eat up and go. I'm sure it wasn't and I'm just as sure that the good people at Greek-Cypriot restaurant Retsina are very nice - it's just that it didn't seem that way to us at the time.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, DH were often to be found after a Rotherham United away game in a little Taverna on Charlotte Street. Sure, it wasn't as cutting edge as neighbouring joint Pied à Terre - then owned by Tom 'Pre-Pack' Aikens - but the food wasn't bad and there was a sense of fun that meant at that time you didn't really want to be anywhere else, certainly not next door anyway.

Sat in a dark corner at a pokey little table in Retsina we felt more like a couple of goy Woody Allens, stuck on the loser train rather than the two fearless urban dining warriors we really are. We wanted to be next door.

There was scant recompense in the food. Despite a refurbished, modern interior the menu is avowedly old-school. You know there’s a good reason why a lot of old-school things stay that way. If you've ever visited the legendary Jimmy's in Soho or any number of similar places in London you'll know what I mean.

Dips of Pink Tarama and one of Aubergine were familiar to us from many visits to (shhhhh…) Turkish Ocakbasi gaffs. They were serviceable but no more. Less clever was a plate of Baby Squid that under the overriding taste of oil had more than a nodding acquaintance with the deep freezer. Loukanika Sausage had a tough thick hide that made it a bit of a challenging chew. Not necessarily a bad thing - I like things with texture - but here it was just down to bad preparation.

My main course of Keftiko was a decent enough effort. A huge knuckle of Lamb had been cooked long and slow until the meat fell easily from the bone into a puddle of the cooking juices underneath. But it was a relentless eat and working through the second half of it was very, very hard going.

HS's grilled meat platter tasted better than it looked with it's chunks of mystery meats and desultory salad. It sated him but with very little joy. Chips were actually ok in a sort of re-cooked old school way, but the overall feeling about the food was that we were in some sort of parallel universe: imagine, if you will, a land where Theodore Kyriakou had never come along and revolutionised Hellenic cooking ten years ago.

Around us there were plenty of smiles from the locals - so they were having a good time - although given the neighbourhood we're talking a greater than average number of ex-public schoolboys, a demographic not noted for their discerning palates (The food ? Bloody good. See you in Rock, Yah ? etc)

Surprisingly, the best part of the meal came at the end: honeyed Baklava was as good as you’re going to get – it really was melt in the mouth stuff. I suspect it may have been bought in. Coffee lacked the requisite kick but HS was happy with his minty tea. After about ninety minutes that was it. We were back in the street, the sound of people having a whale of a time ringing in our ears.

There’s a Greek word Kopiaste. It’s an invitation to come and share and eat and generally make yourself at home. What’s the equivalent for bugger off and leave us alone ? Just wondering.

TANDIS: SPITTING DISTANCE FROM BELSIZE PARK

I am usually slightly uneasy going to restaurants that offer Persian cuisine.

It’s not that I don’t like the food, I really do. In fact I believe that the countries of the Middle East offer up some of the most interesting cuisines of the world. There are two reasons I take pause. One is that whenever I try to pronounce the names of the dishes I invariably end up covering my dining companion in a shower of spittle and one that often incorporates a large amount of flat bread. The other is that no matter how polite and friendly they are being, the owners and waiters in these restaurants always come across as being slightly miffed and, quite frankly I am a bit of a fraidy cat.

So, when the owner of Tandis in Belsize Park announced “I am not taking your order until you say them properly” I did not know if he was joking or not and I was not surprised when my dining companion Petra raised up her menu to protect her from the inevitable drenching of phlegm.

She had been a good sport so far, trudging all the way up to North London after I turned down the kind offer of discount sushi in Clapham and was even more of a good sport as she saved me from further embarrassment by making a rather good stab at pronouncing the names of the dishes herself.

Tandis, halfway up Haverstock Hill, has been open for about five months and its air-conditioned room was a welcome relief from the muggy conditions outside. The service too was welcoming despite the deadpan faced request to try out our Arabic (or is that Persian?). It was also beguilingly honest turning down our request to share three main courses with a stern shake of the head and a declaration that “you wont get close to finishing it”

We took his advice and ordered a starter of Masto Moosir (duck everyone) a refreshing dip of strained yoghurt with shallots that we scooped up with hot flat bread as we caught up.

When the main courses arrived, we could see why he had been so insistent. Baghali Polo Ba Maahicheh (excuse me while I wipe the screen) was a sizable chunk of lamb shank with a large pile of rice mixed with lots of butter, fresh dill and broad beans. Zereshk Polo Ba Morgh (and again with the screen wipe) was another sizable mound of rice, this time flecked with saffron and covered in sour barberries.

Both dishes were delicious. The lamb fell off the bone at the first touch of a fork and the second pile of rice gave way to reveal large amounts of chicken which had been cooked slowly in more saffron. The rice in both dishes was buttery but the dill and broad beans gave an added element to the first dish while the barberries cleared the palette for the second. Even with us reigning back on our ordering, it was too much to finish and Petra requested a doggy bag for the remaining rice.

The bill, with something to drink, came to about £20 a head, standard for a neighbourhood restaurant and good value for one that serves very decent food in pleasant surroundings.

After supper, we decided to walk down to Marine Ices to have an ice cream for pudding forgetting that it was closed on Monday evenings. A great shame, not just because ice cream would have been perfect on a balmy evening like this but, more so because I don’t spit on anyone when I order a strawberry cone. Really I don't