PAOLINA THAI CAFE: LUNCH IN KING'S CROSS

A quick lunch today, after a couple of very productive meetings found me joining my chum, Susan for lunch in King’s Cross. There are precious few restaurants of any worth in that area (and no, Konstam is not one of them)but she assured me that she knew just the place for us to sit in peace and quiet.

I had my doubts as she led me past the station and towards the Pentonville Road and even more when she stopped in front of a small café with a peeling yellow frontage, a battered awning over the entrance and a dilapidated sign reading “Paolina Thai Café”

Once inside the décor suggested that little had changed since the place opened, originally, I would imagine from the name, as a greasy spoon with Italian ownership. One of the "new" incumbents, an elderly Thai lady, drew our attention to a laminated menu pinned to the wall.

“You choose, tell me, pay later”

The menu listed twenty dishes, not one over £6. We chose quickly, gave our order as instructed and then descended to a small basement dining room where two other tables were occupied.

The food came quickly. Squid rings were a decent starter, freshly fried and crisp and served with a sour sweet dipping sauce, a pleasant diversion as we continued with our conversation and waited for the main courses, which also arrived in rapid fashion.

Susan’s Prawn Pad Thai was probably the better of the two with plenty of noodles steaming from their brief stint in the wok and just enough seafood to justify the name the dish had been given. Less so my own choice, a daily special of Chicken Massaman curry, which while it tasted the part with of hints of tamarind and fish sauce needed more gravy and indeed chicken to stop it becoming just a stir-fry with potatoes.

Other tables seemed to have made better choices and the soups in particular looked well worth returning for. In any case, a bill that only just managed to approach £15 for the two of us including a drink seemed reasonable value for hearty portions of freshly prepared food and definitely marks Paolina Thai Café worth noting as an interesting place for lunch the next time I am in King’s Cross.

THE PRINCESS OF SHOREDITCH: NEW DIRECTION NEEDS WORK

After reading a giddily enthusiastic review in Time Out and encountering a few equally positive chirpings on Twitter, I expected to echo Howard Carter’s exclamation of “Wonderful things” as I walked into The Princess of Shoreditch on Thursday and discovered the new space, the new owners and the new fine dining menu.

Instead I found that the bar looked little different to when I last set foot in the place just under three years ago. There was even the same personable barman, Alex. He still pours a terrific pint and I chatted to him over a jug of Sambrook's Wandle as I waited for my lunch companion, Oliver Thring to arrive.

The owners, who have been in place for over a year, have given the upstairs a lick of duck egg blue paint and the menu has been revamped upwards to create more distance between it and the “pub grub” of the downstairs bar area. That and Time Out’s rating seemed to have worked wonders and when we finished our pints and coiled up the spiral staircase the dining room was pretty much packed to capacity.

The new menu ticks most of the pre-requisite fine dining buttons. There are oysters to begin with, plus a soup, a parfait and a terrine. Nothing on there to scare anyone and, if prepared properly, nothing at all to complain about. Likewise on the list of main courses, which offer up couple of fish dishes, the almost inevitable use of pork belly and a named breed of dead cow. None of it is terribly inventive but comfortable enough for anyone tired of restaurants that believe every meal should be a journey of discovery.

Starters were a good indication of the way things were going to go. A foie gras and chicken liver parfait came served with a spiced poached plum and toast. The texture of the parfait was perfect, the toast warm and the horseradish dressing on the accompanying leaves an interesting touch. However, it lacked depth needing either one more twist of the pepper mill or a good glug of brandy to perk up an otherwise decent dish. Oliver’s butternut squash panna cotta was less successful. It was an ugly and unappealing plate of orange components none of which, from what I tasted, seemed to have any discernable flavour. Added to which, I can only hope that the days of the “skidmark” school of plate dressing will soon come to their natural end.

The cider braised belly pork of my main course was perfectly prepared. Unfortunately, the kitchen had done its best to hide the fact by smothering the two generous slabs with a thick glaze of one of those fearsome reductions which destroy all before them, so that all taste of pig was lost in the fall out. The carrot and anis puree was again delivered in “splodge” mode but not a bad addition, bringing a welcome touch of sweetness to the dish. It paled however against the star of the show a single slice of terrific black pudding, I suspect of the Clonakilty variety. This is a dish that could potentially be a contender, but only if the impressive quality of the ingredients is allowed to shine. In its current form, it is just a heap of textures with one taste.

I felt much the same way about Oliver’s plate of roasted mallard breast, which came with a small slab of seared foie gras, a confit of the leg and salsify. The ingredients, again, were obviously excellent and ably cooked, but were hampered by the addition of a “all bow down before me” sauce, which dominated the sample Oliver passed onto my plate.

There is obviously some real talent in the kitchen and investment in quality ingredients, both of which are welcome in a neighbourhood more used to eateries feeding stoned clubbers than serious diners. But, on the basis of these dishes, there is still work to be done to justify what ended up being a pretty hefty lunchtime bill. It came to £80 for the two courses and coffee and also included a bottle of Chilean Pinot, the cheapest on a short, but well priced wine list and a 12.5% charge for service which, as it always has been was excellent.

Any move to up the ante in a restaurant is always welcome and I wish the newly revamped Princess the best of luck. However, with higher prices come higher customer expectations and the cooking at The Princess of Shoreditch needs to up its game if it is to meet those of the bald, short, fat half of DH and, don't forget, I am the cheery one who is easy to please. God help them if HP goes in.

BANGALORE EXPRESS: CONFUSING

HP and I like to play a little game when we are watching football. We try to come up with the perfect adjective for each team taking part, particularly during international games. It allows us the opportunity to drag every possible stereotype from the locker. So the Germans are “efficient” the French “mercurial” the Italians “cunning” and the Russians "ruthless" The English? Well of course the English are “hapless” or if we are feeling more charitable “frustrating”

I wonder if the same game could be played with restaurants? Maze would be “woeful” Anything related to Tom Aikens could be “cynical” and Rules could be “immutable” If I was asked to include in the game today’s lunch at Bangalore Express today, the only word I could come up with would be “confusing”

It’s a relatively new venture, the second branch of the chain, which forms the easy access route to Chelsea’s The Painted Heron. Open for only three weeks, the restaurant is obviously yet to get the word out about its existence or its location, down a small alleyway opposite Leadenhall Market. For the whole of my lunch, I was the only person in the place and spent the meal smiling uneasily at a lot of bored looking waitresses who seemed genuinely surprised when I walked through the door.

The menu, quite frankly is a mess. There is an a la carte option with some very unpleasant sounding dishes indeed. Indian Calzone, anyone? I thought not. There is also a mix and match option called “Big Plates of Curry & Rice” which would allow you to create some equally unpleasant combinations, Duck Vindaloo anyone? I thought not. There is a low fat option, Indian “tapas” option and even a “deluxe" option offering dishes from The Painted Heron. You would need a three year degree, not a single lunchtime to try and figure it all out.

Such a confusion of possibilities would not matter if the cooking were any good. But, as soon as my own choice of a Vegetable Thali arrived (chosen more to prevent bewilderment than enthusiasm) it was obvious that the food lacked thought and, even worse, passion. They had decided to ignore the traditional thali presentation with small steel bowls of each dish to be mixed by hand with plain rice on a large steel plate (or originally a banana leaf) instead cramming all the food artlessly onto one white plate.

The end result is a messy plateful of colours not helped by the fact that none of the food actually tastes any good. Quite why they had to use the Japanese word “tempura” to describe an assortment of oily vegetables in a soggy batter, I am not sure, but if they were meant to be bhaji, they have some real issues in the kitchen. The lurid orange sauce covering some decent paneer was thin in flavour and the same was true of a “dumpling curry” Only a small blob of spinach and roasted chickpeas showed what they could do if they turned their mind to it. A dry and leathery roti was a final insult and left me pushing my plate away and calling for the bill of £15 including service and a flat glass of Diet Coke.

The owners of Bangalore Express seem frightened that by offering “real” Indian food prepared and served as it should be, they are going to alienate their possible audience. Instead they are serving up potentially bizarre combinations of not very nice food with a vague Indian twist. I am not sure at whom this restaurant is aimed. It's certainly not me and, judging from the empty room while I ate my lunch, not many other people either.

Confusing indeed.

PILCHARDS ON TOAST: SOMETIMES THE SIMPLE THINGS IN LIFE BRING THE MOST PLEASURE

For the last few days I have been, shall we say, living it large as I travelled up to Scotland for the launch of Glenfiddich's astonishing 50 year old whisky (post soon to come) While I was there amongst all the proper whisky experts, I was incredibly well taken care of with great food and, of course, lots and lots of superb Scotch to sample.

However, just as I found when I was on the road for a year and as I am finding now with research for EATING FOR BRITAIN, most of the time my cravings are not for fine dining, smart restaurants or even eating out at all.

Right now, after a week on the road, all I wanted for lunch was something comforting. It could have been scrambled eggs, it could have been as simple as a bowl of chicken soup or it could have been a thick bacon sandwich.

For some reason, however, when I awoke this morning, I had a huge craving for Pilchards on toast. I have no idea why and I cannot actually recall the last time I felt the urge to open a tin and heat up its contents. But, there it was and a short shopping trip to Waitrose later for a tin of Cornish Pilchards and some rye bread, my meal was ready.


Bloody lovely it was too and it reminded me, if I needed reminding, that sometimes, the most pleasure can be found in the most simple of things.

Now, I wonder how it might go with that £10,000 Whisky?

ASSENHEIMS 56: A WHOLE HEAP OF MESSY FUN IN THE CITY

I realised on Monday that I had spent almost 90% of the last week in my flat staring at the computer screen working on EATING FOR BRITAIN and other writing assignments. I was going stir crazy and decided to head out for lunch even if I only had an hour to spare.

Recently, someone posted on DH asking where we found out about new places. It was a good question as, quite apart from HP’s extraordinary detective skills and the dozens of P.R e-mails we now receive, it is often just word of mouth or a quick glimpse at one of the food boards which brings a little gem to our attention even if it is right on our doorstep.

Take Assenheim’s 56 on Copthall Avenue. I live less than five minutes walk from this small sandwich bar just off London Wall and would not have given it a second glance but for a rare click on the moribund UK discussion board of Egullet.com.

There a poster with the screen name of Howard Long (I am guessing because he is called Howard Long) was enthusing about the grilled chicken served here although he was less taken with the service, which he compared to Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi.

It sounded like it might be worth a try and, by the time I got down there at midday, it also seemed that half of the workers in The City had the same idea as a line was already forming. On the left as I entered, was a standard sandwich bar, nothing to report there. But, in front, where the queue was pointing, rows of polystyrene trays had already been laid out with salad waiting to be filled.

Behind the counter, two men were busy turning chicken on a hot grill and another was taking the orders. Despite Howard’s warning, this was nothing like the ordeal I endured on my one visit to West 55th St and I was merely asked if I wanted dressing on my salad, Tabasco on my chicken and a slightly curious green sauce over the whole lot. I did, said so and was pointed to the cash desk, to where my tray had been passed and asked to cough up my £7. It’s hardly The Krypton Factor.

Most people were taking their meals away desperate to get back to their offices in case their jobs had vanished in the ten minutes they were gone. I had a whole half hour to linger, so sat at the one small counter to examine my food.

Well, it’s certainly not the prettiest plate, er tray of food I have ever encountered, but then again I always think that the cheffy notion that you “eat with your eyes” is total bollocks and the best food I have ever tasted was often not much to look at.

On that basis, the chicken at Assenheim’s 56 is wonderfully messy fun. The salad can be discounted, not least because it had bits of raw pepper in it, a total no-no. The red rice is a harmless distraction, but this is all about the chicken. £7 does not get you a lot, but the small portion was moist and delicious with a charred crust dotted with flecks of Tabasco and that lurid green sauce turned out to be quite nice, flavoured as I think it was with lots of coriander, parsley and garlic. It certainly made an agreeable difference from my usual bowl of New Covent Garden chicken soup.

By the time I left, the sandwich bar was still as busy as when I had arrived with workers wanting to sample an alternative to all the chains offerings that litter The City’s streets and the staff were well into the groove of their obviously well practiced routine as they dealt with everyone efficiently.

HP who used to call this neck of the woods his “manor” tells me that the Square Mile is dotted with lots of curious places like this so, given that I am going to be stuck in the flat for a few months longer doing this here writing lark, any other suggestions would be most welcome. IN the meantime, Assenheim's 56 might just be worth a try.

THE COMMISSARY: INEDIBLE IN ISLINGTON

Someone posted a question yesterday about why HP did not complain about his seemingly dire meal at The Salisbury. His response quite rightly was, to tell the anonymous poster to mind his or her own fricking business.

However, it did raise an interesting point about why, here in Britain, we are so reticent about complaining. It may be because of our innate British reserve. It may be because that, on the whole, most people in this country don’t know if they are having a good meal or a bad one so don’t recognise need for complaint. It may even be that the restaurants are wise to us and put barriers in the way of genuine and polite complaints.

Some, all too few in number, may actually try and do something to rectify the situation. But, many, truly don’t give a damn and will often send out some aggressive sort to argue the toss until bewildered and confused, you slink out into the night feeling cheap and used.

However, yesterday’s strategy, during and after a truly abysmal lunch at The Commissary was a new one on me. Just make sure that the only staff available to customers, treat the English language as a work in progress.

I had chosen The Commissary at the request of my friend, Ashika, as a “cheap place with decent food near to Old St” and, based on one previous visit, it would have just about filled all those criteria. It’s not easy to find, down by the canal and with the entrance only through the gates of The London Studios. Now I can only wish that it had been even harder to find or indeed impossible, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Bar a few tables filled with people from the adjacent studios having their lunch, we were the only people in there and, looking at the short menu, we selected our food and a bottle of cheap Spanish wine and I went to order at the bar.

The wine arrived immediately and tasted like it had been left next to a radiator. Not a good start, but we were too engrossed in catching up to notice. We did notice however when our starters arrived. In fact we noticed when our main courses arrived too as all four plates came up at the same time and the waitress struggled to fit them on to our small table.

Our attempts to explain that the notion of starter and main course meant at least a short gap between courses were met with a blank stare, the first use of the “meee no speekeee English” gambit from the Eastern European wait staff and the plates were plonked down as we were left to our own devices as she scurried off to chat to a friend behind the bar before we could be more firm about matters.

Faced with four sizeable plates of food, we began to pick at random, hoping that it would at least be worth the effort. It wasn’t. I can say, hand on heart that this is seriously some of the most disgusting food I have ever encountered anywhere on earth and one wonders what kind of people would have to be in the kitchen to send slop like this out without an apology note or at least a gun so you had the option to shoot yourself first?

A few miserable rings of Calamari were like small inner tubes and came with a sharply dressed salad that made our mouths pucker like we were receiving a thousand paper cuts and sprinkling them in vinegar. A plate of chorizo saw large, partially cooked potatoes tossed with strips of leathery sausage in the most inappropriate marriage since a judge once said “Michael do you take Lisa Marie………”

By now, we had forgotten which were main courses and which were starters, but it didn’t matter as the few mouthfuls we took just made us sorry we had woken up that morning. A goat’s cheese “stack” took matters to a whole new level of awfulness, with particular points for leaving a nice tough skin on the cheese to add extra texture.

I could only dream what texture they were looking for in the burger, but I am guessing that mushy wasn’t it. The chips were, once again, barely cooked potatoes tossed in raw paprika the sort of dish even The Kyhmer Rouge would reject as being a crime against humanity.

The waitress came to take the barely touched plates away with hardly a raised eyebrow, a sure sign that this may be an all too regular occurrence at The Commissary. If I had been able to get a decent signal on my Blackberry I would have googled to see what “That was fucking disgusting, please kill me, kill me now” is in Polish, but, as HP so often says after a meal where you feel that the whole operation either doesn’t know or knows and doesn’t care, that it is so wretched “what’s the point?”

So bad was our whole experience in fact, that Ashika and I came out shaking with laughter, almost forgetting the £40 our “meal” cost us. But, it will be a cold day in hell before I forget easily one of the worst meals I have ever been served in London.

LAUNCESTON PLACE: A LUNCHTIME BARGAIN

Quite often, I receive e-mails from friends asking me to recommend the ‘best bargain” in London and, just as often, I receive a quizzical reply to my response that it is lunch at Le Gavroche, one of London’s oldest temples to fine dining, rather than one of our ethnic eateries.

It may seem odd to recommend a meal costing just shy of £50 as a “bargain” but it truly is one of the best opportunities to experience one of the great restaurants, with that price covering everything from the moment you enter the door to the moment you leave filled with three courses of wonderful cooking and cosseted by the legendary service.

The set lunch at high-end restaurants is one of London’s undiscovered treasures and also a way to secure a spot at some of the hardest to book tables in town. So, when my good chum, Nick asked me to suggest a place for lunch, my thoughts turned to Launceston Place, recommended to me by a number of people for its daytime menu of three courses for £18.

The restaurant itself needed no introduction. During my years at Penguin Books, it was an all too regular haunt when schmoozing clients. The food was “polite” as HP calls it, rather than memorable and service was charming and discreet, which it needed to be given that Princess Diana was regularly to be seen pushing her food around the plate while dining in the company of an elderly Lady In Waiting.

That was in the 90’s and less than a year ago, this now tired old restaurant was rescued by the D&D group (Conran to you and me) its room given a sparkly new makeover and the kitchen put in the control of former Petrus wunderkind, Tristan Welch.

Nick, being a man who actually has to work for a living, was running a bit late, so I occupied myself in the small bar area with a couple of newspapers, a glass of wine and more than one helping of some terrific onion crisps with a cheddar cheese dip. By the time Nick finally burst through the door looking flustered and apologetic, it was almost 2.30pm and fast approaching the end of service. If this put the staff out one little bit, they did not show it and we were given a lovely table in a room that shows where every penny has been spent.

The lunch offers three choices in each course and our amuse appeared quickly in the form of a small cup of delicious celeriac soup with slivered almonds and hazelnut oil. Just good enough to overcome my strong dislike little cups of something as an amuse.

Our first courses appeared a little too quickly particularly when one of them was a Spider Crab risotto, but first tastes of both that and a Cobb Chicken Terrine showed that this was a very able kitchen. The terrine was served at the perfect temperature and, like all good examples should, had a variety of textures and perfect seasoning. A little slick of slow poached egg yolk added a touch of richness to the dish. The risotto had the deep flavour that only comes from a great stock and the little slick of herby garlic butter on top added an extra burst on the tongue.

Main courses too, were exemplary. My own slivers of smoked bacon fell apart to the touch and although the accompanying braised onions were covered in a sauce that shows a youthful love of foams and fancies, the overall dish was a perfect combination of Autumn flavours. Nick’s choice of Venison casserole too showed a good seasonal touch. Nick stalks deer himself and can gralloch them to boot, so his sucking the bone clean of meat and marrow spoke volumes about the enjoyment of his choice.

By now, the restaurant was empty but for us and still the staff remained unflustered as we sat in the declining Sunlight through the window and finished our glasses of a slightly undistinguished Qupe Syrah. a light pre-dessert of caramel crème topped with little nuggets of bonfire night toffee came as we waited for our shared dessert, a Tarte Tatin. What was presented was as pleasing example as you are likely to find in London with a slightly chewy caramel topping, apples; sharp, soft but still holding their shape and a crispy, flaky pastry base. Nick, who spends enviable chunks of his time in France, declared it as good as he encounters there.

By the time the staff finally lost patience and suggested we move to the bar as we lingered over cups of tea, it was time to get the bill anyway and Nick, being Nick picked up the tab. Without the wine, our bill would have come to about £25 a head including service. A veritable bargain for three courses, amuse and pre-dessert of very good cooking indeed and served with charm.

It may just be that Le Gavroche has some competition next time someone asks me to recommend the best bargain lunch in the capital.

EL VERGEL

LUNCH WITH THE LAWYERS AND THE LAYABOUTS

It will come as a great surprise to those who read the blog and imagine me to be an amiable, tolerant, happy-go-lightly kind of guy who strolls around with a hat on his head at the most jaunty of angles, thumbs in his braces and constantly whistling a happy refrain, but I am not really a people person.

In fact, if truth be told, I don’t really like people at all. A bothersome lot. Oh, I tolerate them, of course. You have to. Society, for some reason or other, frowns upon the perfectly natural urge to inform people of their unique levels of idiocy for the betterment of life in general and my life in particular.

So, I keep myself to myself and the medication I am obliged to take calms those voices in my head which tell me that skinning some irritating little tit alive would be the best thing for them and me.

Mind you, I was pushed to the very limit today.

I am still feeling as rough as a navvy after a week long binge on the turps. Partly because of chill caught while hiking in Padstow and partly a reaction to the last of my jabs for EAT MY GLOBE which had me had me in bed most of the weekend quivering like a badly made blancmange.

Not a good start and added to by the stress of realisation that I have only three weeks before I fly to Japan and about four weeks worth of organising still to do.

Still, I managed to do some writing this morning and organise a lot of my currency (Yen, Deng, Dong, Wang, Bong. God knows what else?) for the trip and I felt like I deserved a nice, if quick, lunch.

I had been wanting to try the food at South American caterers, El Vergel, for ages. People I know who work in the area swear by it and I have been to a couple of business lunches where the people there provided the excellent catering.

Open from 8am for breakfast through until 3pm. Everything in El Vergel ( means The Vegetable Patch, they tell me) is prepared fresh every day and the menu has daily and seasonal tweaks.

The light and airy dining area has high stools around the side and one long bench seat in the middle. It was empty when I arrived and I was perfectly happy to plonk myself down at the end of the bench with my paper and listen to the constant but amiable Spanish chatter from the rather lovely staff.

The food is rather lovely too. Simple, but well done. A fresh crisp salad, came with a large chunk of hot fresh green bean tortilla and, while it went a bit long on raw pepper for my liking, it would have satisfied on its own for a mere £3.25.

But, I needed a bit of protein, so also ordered a Churrasca Con Queso which involved grilled slices of rump steak marinated in chilli with cheese served in home made “village” bread. For £4.25 it would also have made a meal in itself and, when slathered with some of the salsa they leave on the table, was very good indeed.

With a tip and a beer, it came to about £13, but lunch there could be had for little over a £5 which is not bad in these days of chilled pre-made sandwiches.

The place was still empty by the time I finished eating, so I made the mistake of ordering a hot chocolate. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, the chocolate was that all too rare a thing in London, hot and tasting of chocolate.

But, the moment, I took my first sip, the place began to fill up and my hackles began to rise in direct response.

The take out menu of El Vergel says that it is “ one minute from The Inner Law Courts, five minutes from The Tate Modern and Eight Minutes from South London University. Something like that anyway.

And, Lord, can’t you tell it? Within ten minutes the place was filled with pinstripe wearing barrister types competing with satchel wearing design types to see who could bray loudest about matters of the least consequence.

From a peaceful little Latin American enclave to the seventh level of hell in as long as it takes to say “guacamole”

If they were competing to see who could drive me away quickest, the lawyers, for once, lost. A profoundly white twenty something next to me was wearing a t-shirt with Peter Tosh on the front and thought this gave him licence to exclaim everything, including his order, in an estuary version of Jamaican patois when patently the closest he has ever got to Babylon is a club in Notting Hill.

When he turned to his pizza faced friend and said “one more ‘ting” I knew that I was in danger of letting the voices in my head win and asked for my hot choc to be put in a takeaway cup, paid up and scarpered.

Don’t get me wrong. The food at El Vergel is very enjoyable indeed. Fresh and reasonably priced. The service could not have been more sweet and, when less full, the room is a great place to enjoy a nibble.

Next time though, and I am sure there will be a next time. A takeaway, I think. For my sake and theirs.

GALVIN BISTRO DELUXE

I am a huge fan of Chris Galvin ( and his brother, Jeff). His was the only tenure where The Orrery became bearable and Galvin at the Windows was amongst my top meals of 2006 even if the cost of a meal for two still gives me the shudders.

So, when it was time again to sit opposite my good chum, Nick for lunch, this was the first and only place on my mind.

It’s a lovely room. The perfect place to linger over an unhurried meal. However, the closeness of the tables does cause problems for those of us God blesses with bladders the size of walnuts. So, every time I, or anyone on our side of the restaurant, wanted to use the bathroom, the whole row had to get up, move their tables and rearrange themselves to make it happen.

A few years ago, I named this phenomenon The Piss Waltz with particular reference, to Blue Hill in NYC, the ne plus ultra of parsimonious table spacing. Well, GBD does not come close to that, but it does almost allow one to become gyaenocological with people neighbouring tables should one so wish and our bread came in contact with the buttocks of a large lady to our left one or two more times than I would consider strictly necessary.

A minor quibble for the chance to try cooking that is, on the whole, of a very high standard.

Starters were simple, but well done. A steak tartar spoke of perfect ingredients and a large salad of endive, walnuts and Roquefort showed just how good a composed salad can be when people put in the effort.

The main courses were more of a mixed bag. Nick’s won out with beautifully fresh halibut flaking in a mound of broad beans and herbs. As good a light lunch dish as you are likely too find. Mine was less successful. Belly pork was slow cooked but not enough of the fat had rendered down so the end result was greasy and left a slick of oil on top of the accompanying sauce. The top layer had a pleasingly crispy crunch to it and it sat on a layer of choucroute which gave off a waft of juniper berry. But, the weakness of the main player let down the dish.

I had pondered on Duck Confit as I always do when I see it on any menu. Seeing one carried passed as I ate my own slightly disappointing dish made me wish I had stuck to my original plans.

We did not have pudding and we stuck to water ( on my part at least because I am still drying out after the bar show) which kept the bill at a manageable £60 including tip for service which was unobtrusive and efficient.

They offer a set lunch of two courses for £15.50 which, for cooking like this represents terrific value. Well worth trying again.