JOSÉ: UNA ESQUINA ESPAÑOLA

When people realise you’re a bit more interested in food and restaurants than would be considered normal in polite company the first thing they do is ask you what your favourite restaurant is. To be honest I haven’t really got a favourite restaurant. Honest.

What I do like though, what really floats my boat and pulls my chain is propping up a Spanish bar. It’s probably in Madrid, on a cold day with that incandescent sunlight that you get in one of Europe’s highest capital cities. The barman would be of the grumpy tendency but the caña of Mahou he had just poured would be cold and have a thick, creamy head.

I would wait for my free tapa - a piece of tortilla or maybe a handful of cortezas de cerdo - before ordering un ración de jamón ibérico de bellota. He would cut the ham quickly and expertly, laying the slices in an outwardly radiating spiral, finally dropping some picos into the centre. I would take a sip of the cold, slightly bitter beer then pick up a slice of the jamón, oily from the melting fat, between thumb and forefinger. I would hold it up and briefly examine it against the light before shoving it down my gob.

At this point my interrogator would already be walking away, staring at the floor and shaking their head.

José in Bermondsey street is billed as a Sherry Bar but actually that description undersells it. For starters the wine list, whilst it has a good range of sherries has a lot of other good stuff on it (the list was put together by a couple of Masters of Wine). Also I can't think of many sherry bars that have open kitchens with several top chefs beavering away in them.

Decor is clean and functional and as in most places in Spain you have to find yourself a space at the bar or an upturned barrel to eat at - the idea of sitting at tables to eat any other than a proper is unknown in Spain (although that is changing).

Of course, all this would count for nada if the food wasn’t any good. Happily it is. José is an exemplar of the cliché of the best ingredients cooked simply. This is the stuff that all those Spanish Michelin chefs really want to eat on their day off. There will be a new restaurant opening later in the year where I suspect we may see more evolved dishes but for now José more than fits the bill.

A blackboard shows the daily market specials which is supplemented by a longer list on the menu. They're actually more akin to the Spanish media ración in size than tapas but whatever you want to call them the quality of the ingredients used is the key here.

Croquetas de jamón are sometimes a bit oily and over-fried which usually makes me a bit queasy but these were perfect: light, studded with jewel-like bits of ham, I could have eaten several more plates of these. The most fantastic Prawns cooked with a little chilli and garlic and were so good I did order another plate.

Jamón Ibérico is from Manuel Maldonado who is based not far from Jose’s hometown of Cáceres. With jamón it’s all about the cutting – you should be able to the read the maker’s name on the blade through the meat - and while it may sound xenophobic when you have the good stuff you don’t want a guiri wielding the knife. As well as being of exemplary quality this is the best cut jamón you’re going to get in London.

Razor Clams (from Scotland) come simply cooked on the plancha with a bit of chorizo and mint. Almejas are huge and meaty and you'll definitely want some bread to mop up the sherry broth.

Wonderfully fresh Sardines possibly could have done with a bit more char - they can take it - but were wonderfully fresh. Ditto some Mackerel in an escabeche which can be a bit iffy if the fish isn't up to snuff.

Pluma Ibérica (so named because of its resemblance to a feather) is one of those cuts of Pork like secreto and presa that the Spanish go nuts about but which are seldom seen over here. Well-marbled and with a lovely layer of fat it's cooked quickly so still rare inside and served with piquillo peppers. Combine some of the sweet pepper with the rich, rare pork to see what the fuss is about.

Puds are not really a Spanish forte and in lieu of helado mixta a glass of Victoria Ordoñez Malaga No. 2 and some Strawberries and Cherries more than passed muster.

Service is friendly and clued-up and really adds to the great atmosphere of the place – blimey, even a hard-hearted, old curmudgeon like me had a smile on my face (although that may have been the wine).

Three hours of a Saturday lunchtime had never passed more quickly and in a drunken, post-meal tweet I posited the fact that this was currently the best Spanish cooking in London. In the sober light of day I see no reason to retract that statement.

ZUCCA: SOME BERMONDSEY SQUASH

Fads come and fads go. Was this the year Korean was going to make it big? Can’t remember – too busy following the burgeoning Bánh mi scene. I’m joking, of course.

The real trend over the past couple of years has been the increasing number of Italian restaurants opening. From the fancy-schmancy places of Mayfair through modish West End joints like Bocca di Lupo and Polpo, through to the basic but enjoyable hole-in-the-wall trats like 500. And not forgetting the thousands of new pizza joints.

Something for everyone then, although a more cynical soul than myself (yes, really) would say that since Italian cooking is predicated on a few ingredients, simply prepared then as Arthur Daly said (he sounds a bit Italian) there's a nice little earner to be made.

A blob of pizza dough flattened out and topped with Cheese and Tomato becomes a £15 pizza; a few pence worth of Pasta and a bit of Rabbit stew and, hey presto, a twenty quid primi in a swanky restaurant.

One of the latest openings to get the reviewers all moist is Zucca in Bermondsey Street. I haven’t been down this way for a while and what was once a quiet little residential road with the odd place to eat is now rammed with coffee bars, delis and restaurants with a (gosh) boutique hotel at the end of the road.

Zucca itself is a not unpleasant-looking restaurant. I liked the bright, white décor and furniture – a sort of L’Anima-lite – which is a pleasant change from the dark and the beige although you always run the risk that a messy klutz like myself will visit. Our late mother bought a patterned carpet for that very reason.

The first thing that struck me was how cheap everything was: no starter over £4 or main over £13. It’s always good to see sensible pricing although a part of me always wonders where the catch is or where corners have been cut. At Zucca it was the starters that betrayed the keen prices.

A decent sized plate of the signature “Zucca” Fritti were light and crisp enough but you could taste the oil from the frying and to be honest, pumpkin, even deep-fried pumpkin, can get pretty dull after a few pieces. The addition of other types of veg like fennel might have made things more interesting.

Rabbit, Pancetta and Hazelnut salad was a bit of a mess. It was overdressed and under seasoned so you couldn’t taste the individual ingredients and it really needed something acidic in the mix to lift it. The toasted Hazelnuts were a good addition but the whole thing tasted as tired as an Hermano Primero metaphor.

Unfortunately things took a turn for the worse with the Speck and Pigeon Crostini. The cured meat was drying and curling up at the edges. The Pigeon pâté was dry too and came on cold, burned bread. Why did I have the feeling I was being fed last night’s left-overs? To be fair the waiter did try to steer me towards other dishes but how difficult would it have been to toast a piece of bread properly? Very difficult indeed it appears.

The staff were friendly and I liked the Chianti Classico I was drinking so I would have been happy to just sit there, ignore the food and get shitfaced. Then, in a rabbit-out-of-hat scenario they came up with a cracking main course.

My Veal Chop was an excellent, big hunk of young cow: tasty, moist, perfectly grilled with just a hint of pink. The belt of fat had been left on and had a slight char. It was the chop that kept on giving. Alongside, some nuclear greens that tasted of iron and goodness. Was this the true Zucca?

A selection of Ice Creams impressed too with nice thick textures (save for one which had crystallized) and clean strong flavours. A double Espresso was served with a little biscuit. Which was nice.

By the end of the meal Zucca had won me over but those starters definitely seemed at odds with the rest of the meal. Possibly a Sunday lunchtime wasn’t the best time to visit although no matter what the day of the week or how cheap the food there should still be care taken in its preparation. That’s how you sort out the good places from the merely quotidian. In other words give a fuck. It was touch and go but I think Zucca does.

THE GARRISON: GASTROPUBS AND ALL THAT

The people at The Garrison must have thought I was really enjoying myself at supper tonight. I was, after all, smiling and giggling like a good un all through my meal.

Unfortunately, it was not the meal that was the cause of such pleasure but a single line from Craig Brown’s very, very funny new book “1966 and all that” As a publisher, I know all about copyright, but I hope his publishers will treat the extract below as free publicity. The line in question was

“ during the early part of World War II, the German war machine bombarded Britain with “Teach Your Self German” pamphlets. This part of the war became known as The Berlitz” For the second time in two days, I snorted liquid through my nostrils.

A great shame that the rest of the meal could not live up to it.

I was pondering on where to have supper tonight when a new “special someone” suggested I meet them for a drink near London Bridge before they had to head off homeward. A bit of net searchage later, I came across The Garrison. A gastropub on The Bermondsey Rd that seems to be a hit with the good denizens of SE1.

After waving my chum off, I headed down to the pub which was full of bright young things and was shown to a table for two in the middle of the room.

The menu is very standard GP shtick and there were the pre-requisite specials chalked on a blackboard.

Some blah bread was brought out while I looked at the menu. I tasted a bit, not worth the effort.

To begin, I chose a special of crispy fried squid with a chilli jam. How bad can a dish get? Look at the picture, my friend, look at the picture. This was a few slivers of crappy squid that looked like it came from Iceland ( the freezer store where they sell complete meals for a £5 not the country just in case there was any mistake ) on top of a mound of leaves from a “ready to eat” bag drowned in too sharp a dressing. This is as bad as food gets without being declared unfit for human consumption. Truly, truly horrid.

I almost cancelled my main course, but was half way through an innocuous glass of vigionier, so stayed put.

I had misread the menu and thought I had ordered steak & chips. I had not. The dinner menu was actually steak and new potatoes with red onions and beef gravy. The beef was actually not so bad. A decent chunk of Charolais cooked medium rare and with a good ribbon of fat through the centre. However, everything else about the dish was a misfire. The potatoes were nondescript, the onions undercooked and the gravy akin to Bisto. A saving grace was a very good Sauce Bernaise. Sharp with enough vinegar and thick with tarragon. I asked for some Dijon mustard and got some Coleman’s French mustard. It is that kind of place.

A glass of insipid Malbec at £6 barely limped out of the glass before I got the bill and limped out of there.

I know a lot of people who criticise gastropubs claiming that food and pubs should never mix. I am not one of them. I think the ability to get a decent, simple meal at a reasonable price without necessarily booking is a boon to the London dining scene. But, we have come a long, long way since the opening of The Eagle where people queued to go "ooh" at the thought of a simple, well prepared meal. There is more choice in London now and expectations have been raised by places like The Fox and the much missed Sutton Arms. The Garrison could have passed muster ten years ago, but now?

Mind you, it was packed to the rafters, so what do I know? I’ll tell you what I know. I know Coleman’s French mustard when I taste it and I know that £33 for a meal as ordinary as this is just not on