St. Pancras International station is probably one of my favourite places. William Barlow’s arch spans 240 feet and upon its completion in 1868, became the largest enclosed space in the world. Inside, urbanites travel to-and-fro, couples relax and drink coffee while others wander the famed construction that epitomises the glamorous.

The sense of grandeur is still evident today. The Gothic red brick Grade 1 listed façade, sculptures to honour of poets and lovers, and the five-colour rings of the Olympiad welcoming every national and international.

Sir George Gilbert Scott designed and built the Midland Grand Hotel after winning a competition run by the Midland Railway Company. The east wing opened in 1873 with completion of the entire building finished in Spring 1876.

In 1935 the hotel was closed making way for railway offices, shutting doors again in 1985; vacant, home only to the vermin. Twenty-six years later, the Gilbert Scott restaurant has opened under Marcus Wareing.

Wareing holds two Michelin stars and is what you could call a lavish chef. He’s particular, appears punctional and proud, serious about his craft. To take on the kitchen and dining room here requires all of these elements. The task is grandiose and the expectation immense.

There’s complimentary popcorn from the bar. It’s smokey (bacon-esc rather than fag ash), which is rather charming. It’s also rather commonplace now however, with the likes of Texture and Spuntino doing the same. I’m also told by a knowledgeable source that Wareing’s own Petrus offers complimentary popcorn.

The bar is smaller than I’d imagined given the expanse of the building and the length of the hallway you navigate to get there – which is lined with spectacular antiquarian wardrobes for hats, cloaks and brollies and is, I expect, also a portal to Narnia and other fairytale worlds.

The dining wing curves around to the kitchen at the far end. A staff service station separates two dining spaces: the tables at the front – close to the entrance – are oddly scattered while further down, tables appear too close in proximity and it’s an elbow-to-elbow experience.

The room could – and should – be vibrant with regulars and travellers. This is, afterall, one of London’s busiest gateways. Sadly, the room is lacking an identity, which given the scope of the space and surrounding history is a grand shame. It’s table and chairs in a corridor. A corridor lacking warmth and welcome, no thanks surely to the oil paintings of bleak winter trees and polar seascapes.

When you have strong first impressions of a restaurant and its design, thoughts naturally shift to the food and whether it can live up to the surroundings and your own expectations. My starter of duck egg on sippets was good; a fine sized egg with glowing, runny yolk sat on sippets (just overblown wording for bread) with duck hearts and devilled sauce, while ‘potted shrimp’ was in fact potless and average.

Mains are all upwards of £16 and there’s a £55 ‘Lake District rib of beef for two with bone marrow’ that the couple next to us were enjoying.

‘Kentish pigeon in a pot’ is mixed with mushrooms, thyme and prunes. It arrived in a bowl rather than ‘pot’ along with a plate. I assumed this was it and began to transfer the contents from one piece of crockery to another (a waste of a good bowl), before realising what a simple portion this was: pigeon breast and mushrooms for £18.

I’m sure this is all deliberate so you’ll jump to the £4.50 accompaniments section, and foolish me, I did, increasing my main from £18 to £22.50 in one cursory swoop. ‘Cauliflower pudding’ was baked with cream and nutmeg and arrived rich and bubbling.

‘Dorset snail and chicken pie’ was another plate that failed to impress. Bereft of even middling presentation the pie was lukewarm containing a mixture of cold garlic and parsley mingled with chicken skin, grey, thick and rubbery. We signalled a waiter bringing this to their attention. “It’s supposed to be in there” he replied. When we questioned this further he took the plate to the kitchen, returning several minutes later, “the chef agrees that the skin is too big and tough.” Then, rightly, withdrew it from our bill.

I’ve spent some considerable time since researching chicken pie recipes and speaking with chefs, all of whom suggest ‘discarding the bones and skin.’ Well it seems obvious, doesn’t it? Not at The Gilbert Scott.

I had been looking forward to desserts after hearing about ‘Kendal mint cake choc ice’ and ‘orange marmalade Jaffa cake’, so why I choose ‘Mrs Beeton’s Snow eggs’, I don’t know? I think it must have been the phrase ‘Snow eggs’, a mystifying description with imagery of fluffy gooeyness. What it was in fact was softly poached meringue with an Everton toffee core, sprinkled with salted peanuts, resting on ‘burnt honey custard’ or rather, crème anglaise – the highlight of the meal.

Wareing has a knack for getting desserts right and here he’s on the money, it’s just a shame that the afore courses fell short, and as popular as I think the desserts here are going to be, they’re not so good as having to wade through two-courses of sheer disappointment in a dining room that doesn’t feel at ease with itself.

As I arrive an onslaught of seagulls swoop for pickings at the ossified carcass of a herring. They pick and chew and squawk their dominance. A dinner dispute breaks out between the creatures. If they knew this rumpus was happening outside Rocksalt, they’d make a reservation and have done with it. The restaurant is on the Folkestone harbour and faces out across the English Channel and bracing sea air. If you’re unlucky you can just make out France.

There’s anticipation in the town since Mark Sargeant opened his first restaurant as owner/operator. Curiosity among locals and whispers in pubs. Not since the late-70s, when Kent locations such as Folkestone, Margate and Ramsgate were family holiday destinations, have people considered the food offerings from the county known as The Garden of England. Indeed, there was little reason to back then.

Now, however, as Rod Liddle recently highlighted in a piece for The Times: ‘Kent has more Michelin-starred restaurants than any of the Home Counties south of the Thames.’

Sargeant’s reasons for coming to Folkestone lie a little deeper than the foodie bubblings of the press. He was born in Kent and grew up scrubbing pots in the kitchens of the county before learning his trade at Michelin-starred Reads in Faversham. For Sargeant, returning to Kent was a move home and as he comments: “Folkestone chose me.” The salt water is in his veins.

Eight-years as Head Chef at Claridges and twelve-years with Gordon Ramsay, Folkestone seems about as peaceful and removed from a conurbation as possible. Like much of the Kent coastline, there’s a washed grandeur telling of a richer past.

The menu has an appeal and is largely dependent on local produce. There are a few colourful entries: red herring is quite literally the red herring jewel in the list: a beetroot-coloured mackerel smoked (by Sonny Elliot of Rock-a-Nore fisheries in Hastings) and served whole. There are traditional radishes, presented on a small wooden board, alongside an anchovy dip. Popping broad beans with mint sea salt offer an English charm, and Kentish sourdough is served with a very fine taramasalata and olive oil.

A dressed harrisa crab holds the brown meat – which has more flavour than white – with crunchy toast as a spreadable-base. A sprinkle of coarse sea salt and you’re good to go.

Sargeant’s response to the ingredients is considerate. His opinion of himself isn’t so high as to think that he can come to Folkestone and throw about foams and squiggles with a Michelin-hand. Instead, there’s an ancient marriage between freshly caught fish and its execution (literally and metaphorically) for the plate. In a region where fish is almost currency, respect is exhibited, for both the fish, and the men whose job it is to catch it, trawling it in before light while the town still snores.

I was surprised to see a tail at one end of my pasty. Poking through like a crown. The ‘mackerel pasty’ stuffed with sausage-meat is a backside-to-front stargazy pie-inspired creation, with the tale-fin peeking through and the head removed. Sargeant did the honours and cut down the centre. Jigging with happiness. It’s like cutting into stone: you see the layers and colour-overlaps. The smell of warm pastry rises. It defies classification and is quite possibly the star of the show.

The Rocksalt kitchen is capably led by Head Chef Simon Dyer and is equipped with a wood burning Josper oven to enhance the flavours of food. My ‘local mackerel with green sauce’ was way too large. Butterflied it consumed the plate. But this is no bad thing. The green sauce was a type of sauce verte with extra capers and watercress.

Puddings (they’re not Desserts here), are a nostalgic reference to local classics: a light and delicious Summer Berry Pavlova, Cold Chocolate and Sea-buckthorn Fondant and a Kent Gypsy Tart to thump anything you were ever served at school.

Alongside Rocksalt there is also a separate fish ‘n’ chip shop located in an old smokehouse. Above are four rooms available to provide accommodation for diners wishing to stay overnight. Charmingly, each room is named after a local fisherman. It’s more stylish chippy bolthole than the Rocksalt restaurant, and another reason to get the seagulls fighting.

Situated on the far south west coast of Wales, the spectacular, and rather quaint city of St. David’s hosts an impressive number of family run coffee shops and art galleries. It is in essence a seaside bohemia with hairy Harley Davidson men and flat cap wearing fisherman, their wives are school teachers or successful local artists, sculpting at the weekend from rock or washed up pieces of wreckage.

The dominant presence is the cathedral, set in a plush green valley, a destination for pilgrimage since the early 12th century. Pilgrimages to this little hideaway over the years have thrown up tourist supply-and-demand places of deplorable quality in the B&Bs, gastropubs and those guided heritage nature walks along crumbling cliff tops.

A gratifying find and pleasurable visit is that of Cwtch. Rachael Knott and Head Chef, Matt Cox’s, restaurant, founded in 2005, earnt them a place in the 2009 Michelin Red Guide. A high honour for the small city entry, being recognized and famed in the region and beyond.

Holidays with my father typically involve the American ‘Great Outdoor’ activities. Not deer hunting or squirrel catching, navigating my way through a rough-riding rapid, but hill-side walks and Withnail & I style wine binges (often dining out) in a truly English father/son bonding fashion. So on a cold, windy, and rather troublous winter’s evening it was a godsend to find Cwtch, promoting and selling local ingredients in an adorable setting within the St. David’s square.

Cox really praises the seasons and changes the menu quarterly, expressing the most out of local produce and his talent as a chef.

Cwtch salad with caramelized walnuts and pantsgawn goats cheese was surprisingly light, and although the taste of walnuts still has that hint of battery acid sharpness, something that is difficult to escape from such a nut, the caramilization warmed the taste buds, and the creamy goats cheese leveled the playing field.

My main of confit duck leg with smoked bacon puy lentils and spiced plum sauce was lovely. I’m a sucker for duck. Not for lentils. The relationship between the two and the plum sauce was delightful, with the duck soft and perfectly cooked.

Chianti Leonardo 2006, fine (Tuscany -£19.00)). A rich bodied red is good with me. Some people’s nightmares are the educated ramblings of Sir Anthony Hopkins describing human liver with fava beans and a nice glass of Chianti. I have always found it a powerful substance of dark-tongue-tingled wonder.

Chocolate and orange torte with vanilla ice cream followed, out of greed, and was sweet and tasty.

There’s not really much to complain about here, and three courses for £28, in times such as these when purse strings are being pulled tighter and tighter, is exemplary.

Neatly tucked away off the beaten track, behind the Poole marina and out of view from Pizza Express, Storm is a small rustic empire of freshly caught fish (and Italian CDs), owned by Pete Miles, a local fisherman who runs the ship along with his wife, Frances.

Both Pete and Frances ensure that the daily menu is never the same, changing according to the fresh fish available, making each dish and each visit an individual experience.

As Lucio Battisti crooned over a crackling radio, I guzzled down the half dozen Irish oysters with red onion and thyme red wine vinegar (£6.00), while listening to music that took on a form of Gipsy King rendition. This was by all accounts, my first experience of an oyster, the plump and silky, and I have to say it, slimy meat from the shell, agreeing with me.

My service waiter was dressed in black and of Medearian decent. He welcomed me and my Pa upon arrival and sat us down immediately with a wine list in my hand. So far so good. I pursued the menu. The selection was limited but fine for lunch. A carefully chosen roster with good European variety in both red and white categories.

As the bustle of a seaside town weaved its way through the sea air streets and into the restaurant, we saw less of our charismatic waiter, who dashed from table to table, seating new customers and wiping down surfaces.

My main complimented my starter nicely, the fresh baked fillet of Cod served with Welsh rarebit topping on mash and wilted greens (£8.50), was washed down by glasses (my father and I managed a lunch-time bottle) of crisp Sauvignon blanc, a light and crispy cold white, and less complex than many, that matches heavenly with fish, and particularly this dish.

Fine wine, food freshly caught and presented on the plate, and very reasonably priced, the beaten faux rusticity, yet entirely modern location is at current, a hidden gem in the back alleys of a small Dorset fishing town, though it will not remain this way for long.

I have mixed feelings about Covent Garden. For such a fine-looking area, with its market stalls and street entertainment, it seems to perform as a tourist junction. An airport terminal in London’s West End for foreign hauls to mix and gather and bumble around knocking into each other; photographing the eclectic mix of punks, students and affluent John/Jane’s in their evening opera attire.

Tuttons Brasserie sits on the edge of the Garden square (11-12 Russell Street) and has been calling this rather enviable position home for over thirty years. The building is chic, built from Portland stone and red brick; designed and built for The Duke of Bedford’s estate in 1886 (a nice commission if you can get it). Inside reflects a Duke’s requisite: graceful and lowly lit with dark wooden chairs and padded-back seating, yet the colours seem pearly and muted and rather saturated.

I ordered the starter of spiced potted shrimps with melba toast. It arrived looking like frozen Vaseline greased into a pottery ramekin. A stiff consommé. The shrimps were imbedded within a translucent butter that had no depth of flavour and you needed a chisel just to chip the top off and access the shrimps. It tasted greasy and bleak and would have been put to better use bottled up and used as lubricant at a German swinger’s party. I was informed by the maître d’ that it was a “shrimp butter” made using “shrimp shell (what? Huh?), cloves, garlic, shallots, spices and brandy”. It had no punch or smack of brandy whatsoever.

To summarise, my appetiser introduction to Tuttons Brasserie was revolting. I complained to the waiter who didn’t put up much of a fight and seemed to agree that it looked just as awful as it tasted. At least we had a mutual understanding. He then promptly returned with the menu and I ordered the beef fillet cappuccino with rocket & aged Parmesan (Grana Padano) and extra virgin olive oil (£8.95) as my replacement that on arrival, looked rather dainty on the large, white plate. My first impressions were fooled and it tasted spot on. The thinly sliced beef tasted rich and well-seasoned and against the Parmesan and olive oil was simple and flavoursome.

Truffles – who it seems is already gearing towards the beach season – ordered only the wild mushroom and basil soup (£5.50). It arrived in a large, rustic bowl and looked glorious in all its fungi beauty. The stock was thick and the wild mushrooms buffing up the meaty, wholesome flavour.

As a side order we shared buttered new potatoes (£3.50), mixed olives (£2.75) and a selection of breads (£2.50). All together a complete waste of £8.75 with only the potatoes adding anything extra to the meal. The breads were my intelligent order to accompany the mushroom soup – bread and soup an obvious marriage – they are also sponge demons of dough and flour and full of salt, fat, milk, yeast and baking soda. Envelops of carbohydrate they absorb liquids only to expand in the stomach, making it the bandit villain of all known diets, from Atkins to Miami Beach. For someone who is going to eat an appetizer as their main course, side orders – bread especially – are a no, no, no-go. And why is it that some restaurants feel the need to charge you for bread when the majority of restaurants nowadays give it to their clients as a handout?

These days I’m leaning to Italy for my wino kicks and a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, 2008 (250ml £7.95), did little to lift my spirits. It’s softer and more accessible than Chianti or Valpolicella but despite the generous aromas of plums and herbs and its mellow finish, one glass of warming spirit was never really going to perform miracles.

My main (and this is rather unlike me) was a vegetarian option; gnocchi, with sautéed wild mushrooms, crumbled goats’ cheese and toasted hazelnuts (£12.95). The balls of gnocchi were dense and lumpy in a thick and creamy base, only livened up by the richness and crunch of the goats cheese and toasted hazelnuts. The wild mushrooms were damp and flimsy and added no extra value to the dish. The creamy base was far too thick and overbearing and the dish failed on all levels. I think it would have been taster as a simpler creation, perhaps with Gorgonzola sauce or a dashing of red pepper and garlic?

Other main options included: roast rump of lamb with fondant potato, savoy cabbage and a red wine jus (£17.25); pearl barley risotto with truffled porcini mushrooms and pecorino cheese (£13.95) and especially the pan-fried pollack with sautéed chorizo sausage, new potatoes, aioli and slow roasted tomatoes (£16.50), all seemed exciting and more appropriate choices. I have no plans however, immediate or henceforth, of returning to Tuttons Brasserie.

To end we shared a mellowing passion fruit pavlova with crème fraîche (£6.00), both of us still a little peckish and eager to leave and disappear into the evening London mist. Next door to the Brasserie is Dirty Martini, “Covent Garden’s premier cocktail bar & one of London’s top destinations for a stylish & sophisticated night out in the West End.” We thought about stopping in but decided on a nightcap coffee elsewhere. Tuttons Brasserie was disappointing for a weekend pleasure trip and enough was enough for the evening.

Tsuru’s Bishopsgate branch sits neatly in a glistening cyber vessel. Prodding into the air, arena scaffolding connects the Star Trek ship design to other neighbourly offices, underneath which Tsuru is settled. Trying to find address: Tsuru 201 Bishopsgate, was a relentless search, eventually overcome by asking a passing fat businessman if he knew where there was a sushi restaurant nearby? He did. My chubby knight, my hefty cherub, pointed me in the right direction.

And so I found Tsuru and met with other likeminded and grumbling foodies to sample dishes from Tsuru’s new menu. After an aperitif of Quinta da Lagoalva rose that looked like Ribena and tasted like cranberry, we dived into our first plate of Aburi Saba (seared cured mackerel served with a glowing dollop of English mustard). A lovely presented plate showed the top slices of seared mackeral, crispy and pearly silver, with its pink and meaty centre underneath. The fish tasted so plump and clean that I didn’t want to ruin its freshness by mixing with mustard, so instead enjoyed the solo taste of seared mackerel before Carla jumped in to consume the remains. This was an excellent start to the evening and I frantically desired more.

Kushi Katsu followed (pork and red onion katsu) served on sticks and deep-fried to create a golden crunchy effect. Pork, mushroom and red onion lined the stick, all coated in breadcrumbs, allowing them to crisp and brown on the outside while remaining tender and moist inside. Kushi Katsu was served with luke-warm Akashi Tai honjozo sake served in an ochoko (a small, cylindrical cup). It wasn’t great; a drab straw-like taste failed to develop and remained a flat and generally lacklustre finish for sake.

Luckily there were better things to come from our third plate of dragon rolls matched with a deliciously syrupy Akashi tai daiginjo sake that had a long and soft ricey texture with a warm sweet finish. The dragon rolls were made from unagi, cucumber and avocado and placed neatly in a line. Paper-thin slices of cucumber nestled with sticky rice, holding the soft and chunky avocado slices on top with a zigzag drizzle of cream. Inside the rolls, cucumber crunched against unagi and I completed each mouthful with a dabbing of soy sauce and slice of fiery ginger. Each ingredient’s flavour was intensified by its freshness and the careful sushi constructs were executed with delicate craftsmanship precision.

Niku miso followed, served as beaten beef in red miso and accompanied by a New Zealand pinot noir with a peppery lick. The deep red painted the throat like biting into a ripe plum and the niku beef was served on top of a cube of white tofu. There was a bolognese meets con carne quality about the beef, mounted on top of the creamy, wobbly tofu. It was fine but there really wasn’t enough beef served to fully appreciate the flavour. Or perhaps there was and I’m just too much of a voracious eater, wanting more and more.

Chilli rice arrived mounted high with shichimi (seven flavour chilli pepper, including coarsely ground red chilli pepper, ground sansho, ground ginger and black sesame seed) and served with crispy chicken katsu curry and a punchy glass of La Tunella Cabernet Franc. A racy Italian wine, its vineyard takes its title from a nearby hamlet, said to be named in honour of a beautiful woman. Fighting the famed The Wine Sleuth and the greediest of diva’s Greedy Diva for the remaining dribblings, it was consumed in record time – clearly popular with the foodie and wino masses. Within seconds it had vanished, washing down the stunning chilli rice and katsu chicken, as Jeremy and Luiz stared on in disbelief. To an extent at least, as Jeremy was lapping up any resonance of sake left in each and everyone’s glass. Whether they liked it or not.

Dessert arrived with typical Asian inspired elements. Why is it that green tea always features in any Japanese or Asian dessert? Last week I had green tea tiramisu at the Michelin-starred Umu in Mayfair. There they serve such desserts as matcha green tea ice cream and even green tea cakes. The dessert at Tsuru was yuzu, green tea and seasame mochi ice cream served alongside golden-coloured dessert sake named Akashi tai umeshu, which smelt of almonds and had lifting sweet tones. The sake was too sweet for me – and anyway, I still had a few delicious drop of La Tunella remaining – so, yep! you guessed it, Jeremy was on hand to finish my Akashi tai umeshu for me. A true friend.

There was a lot of seasame casing to get through before reaching the contents of mochi ice cream and it was chewy and laborious to cut through with a small spoon. The yellow mochi ice (pounded sticky rice) on either side of the lonesome seasame, had an exciting citrus sting while remaining soft and milky.

There’s warmth and personable style to Tsuru Bishopsgate and each dish is presented supremely. Designed by Design LSM, the team behind Galvin La Chappelle, the restaurant has a 32-cover and is the second site for founders Emma Reynolds, Ken Yamada and John Zimern (the first Tsuru is on Canvey Street, Bankside). Emma was present with a sunny welcome and talked us through the dishes. Many of the dish options are priced between £4.50 and £7 and you’re guaranteed the finest and freshest of ingredients, made onsite.

There’s somewhat of a Japanese and sushi craze sweeping through at the moment with the likes of Nobu, Wagamamas, YO! Sushi, Hare and Tortoise and thousands of other assorted noodle bars popping up on nearly every highstreet or road corner. The Asian-inspired influence is outstretching itself to rival the American fast-food industry, it’s as though the chefs and talent of Chinatown are spilling over into the surrounding streets. It’s considered food. Worked into rolls, in bowls and as little parcels. Tiny constructs. Origami food. Great for finger picking on-the-go or as one-hundred tapas portions. Tsuru is all this, and is doing it very well indeed.

I popped in to try a burrito the other day in the newly opened Tortilla Mexican Grill in Hammersmith. The setup mirrors Chipotle’s build-your-own-burrito-style and the line flowed outside the door, cue the rain and a disperse of foolish people without umbrellas.

I’m not sure who were first on the scene in the UK, Tortilla Mexican Grill or Chipotle, but Chipotle was created in the US in 1993 and I’ve been gobbling their burritos for years (there was a chain on my university campus). Having consumed what I roughly believe to be around 472 burritos since 2005, I feel I’m in a position to exert my expertise in the matter of constructed burrito.

Tortilla’s are good. £4.95 for medium or £5.95 for large. Their flour tortillas are soft and flexible (it needs to be to hold the ingredients and fold from the corners) with a warm crust that crunches when bitten. You begin by choosing your Toppings then move on to the Fillings. I went for black beans and lime-cilantro rice, shredded braised pork (other options are: grilled chicken, grilled steak (add 50p) or the Vegetarian case of guacamole), some Iceberg lettuce, Monterey Jack Cheese, Salsa Roja (which I’m told is the hottest option available, made from “some of the hottest chillies on the planet”, but which in fact is rather dull) and for a wasted 70p I added guacamole.

Moving along the assembly line you can view the construction in progress, pointing to the ingredients as you go. It’s all about hand size. The rice and meat and soggy ingredients are dumped onto the tortilla using a ladle, while the lettuce and cheese are added using a bunched handful. Note the hands of your creators, as you could be a victim of lady/or childlike hand swindle. Some, if you’re timely with your observation, will pick a few extra finger-nips of meat and top-up the mounting pile of ingredients for you.

The assembly formation reaches its peak with the real talent (and probably the most boring of roles): Chief Folder. All the others in line have the opportunity to liaise with the customer, look them in the eye, ask them questions, while the Chief Folder is operational in one thing (the most important, most repetitive, most skilled?), to neatly fold, tuck under, and wrap the tortilla. And if they fail – even once – and the flour circle cracks or leaks, then they are taken out the back and their fingers are removed with an electric breadknife. It’s an unfair truth but then, you can’t have a Chief Folder at the head of the formation who lets the entire side down.

A £4.25 Margarita made with Silver Tequila is only average. The glass rim is frosted with salt but it’s not strong enough and the ice is crushed so finely that it resembles a lime green Slush Puppy rather than an authentic Margarita. Even a slice of lime would jazz it up and add extra bite to the party, but it’s lacking in all decoration and potency.

£1.40 for a bottomless soft drink is a better option or ask for a free glass on tap-water and use your spare coinage for a £1.50 bowl of Tortilla chips with guacamole and salsa. Better still, for £1.50, pile on extra meat, and when your dome of ingredients is tipping over the edge and the Chief Folder is under pressure to fold, roll and serve, rest assured that you are testing the very best in the Mexican burrito assembly line.

Tortilla Mexican Grill may be a fastfood chain, but it’s substantially better than McDonalds, Burger King, Subway and all the other garbage accumulated muck, and from lunch it’ll keep you filled until home-time.

As a kid I hated the tube. The London Underground terrified me, all the bold black lines scattered on the maps, the multi-coloured stops blurring and confusing the hell out of me. Goodge Street always seemed funny.

As an adult I developed bravery and overcame the phobia.

Taxis’ I’m partial to. They make travelling from A to B simple – most of the time.

Influxes of Arabian son’s have invaded the capital. Our Hampstead cabby (without tom-tom) took us up, down, around, and at one point I thought, through, Hampstead Heath. In broken English he asked for the name of the destination, “The Spaniards Inn,” I said, thinking its history and notoriety would be enough. “Planards Inn?” he replied. “No, Spaniards, S.P.A.N.I.A.R.D.S.” It was like speaking with one of those telephone cinema selectors – “Maidstone Odeon please.” “Did you say Watford Odeon?” “Nooooooooooo!!!”

My blonde companion (anything similar sounding is already copyright of A.A.Gill) urged the driver to listen, “I’m familiar with the route, but not certain. Take a right turn and then drive straight for 200 yards.” Her temper was subtle and controlled, unlike myself.

A ten-minute journey took forty minutes and we arrived tired and weary, above all, hungry.

With its history; its lob-sided wooden floorboards, tall winding staircase and rural fireplace, The Spaniards Inn has the exact appearance of an ancient Hampstead tavern.

The legendary highwayman and famed rogue, Dick Turpin, is said to have drunk here and used it as a hide-out. According to the pub’s own information, his father was the landlord here in the early 18th century and Richard was born at the inn. Some even claim that Turpin’s ghost haunts the premises, which could explain why our evening went from absurd taxi drive to a ridiculous restaurant experience.

The service was snail slow and embarrassing, comparable to the pub atmosphere of a busy student’s union – genuinely nice kids but without an idea of basic service, manners or even remembering to place the order and deliver the food at all! After seating ourselves in the upstairs restaurant we waited over an hour for our food to arrive.

I collared a studenty looking French employee who apologised and returned with ‘Posh Mushrooms on Toast’ (wild mushrooms in cream and herbs on granary toast, £5.75). As a starter is was good. The mushrooms were served in a creamy heap over the wedge of toast and a small garnish salad on the side was refreshing against the mushrooms.

And then the “BUT”. During our starter, our mains arrived, were placed on the table next to our posh mushrooms, with the service waiter walking off. “Excuse me,” I said, “Won’t this get cold?” “Yeah,” he replied. “Then could you please take it away and wait until we have finished our starters?” It was utter craziness.

Fifteen minutes later the mains arrived. One serving of fish & chips (beer battered haddock, chips, tartar and mushy peas, £10) and my Elwy valley lamb leg steak (£9.00), which arrived as a simple steak I’m fairly certain, without even a hint of lamb in sight, and served with a mixture of cold vegetables and salad. Not a happy matching. This was terrible. Hot and cold together just don’t work. The meat was fatty and tasteless and one of those rare moments when the bone actually outsized the meat.

I was told the fish was no better. Soggy, oily and a dry batter, which clearly had either been re-heated or kept under kitchen lighting for too long?

A decent Malbec at £15 a bottle was some redemption, if not just to wash away the taste of a disastrous meal.

We walked home. Half an hour.

The Sands End Public House & Kitchen will always hold a special place for me… at the end of my road. Out the door, turn left and left again. It’s my local bar and restaurant. My escape. My drop-in. My boozer.

Hidden on a quiet residential Fulham road, the low-built, two-storey Sands End caters to the locals: that mix of builder-bar leaners and toff-slumming, pink shirt and chino wearers (I class myself in that catchment area somewhere inbetween the two. I’ve never pulled off making a pink shirt appear ‘cool’). Indeed, AA Gill wrote in his 2008 review of The Sands End, “If it were at the bottom of my street, I’d be jolly pleased”.

Liam Kirwan (previously of Kensington Place, Blueprint Café and The Gun, Canary Wharf) is head chef and promotes “Great British food with an Irish heart”. There isn’t that much evidence of an Irish theme when I last visited however, instead, scotch eggs, English lamb, Scottish whisky and oysters from Mersea in Essex. It’s more British/Irish fusion cooking in a rural gastropub setting, or “Great British food with an Irish elbow”.

We’re squeezed in at 7pm without a reservation and despite the certainty of it being a clearly busy and balmy Friday summer evening, we are not pushed or hassled, and sit comfortably through our three-courses until near 9pm.

Service was snappy and attentive and we were given the daily printed menu. There is one member of staff in particular named James who is most welcoming and kind and has shown this on several of my visits. Once, offering two twenty-minute late desserts (and coffee) on the house, without me even pushing. I choose 1/2 dozen West Mersea oysters (£8.95), which arrive on ice and with a lemon segment and a sweet red onion dressing. They are cool and salty and there’s not much to moan. Truffles had the salmon tartar with avocado salsa, which was steeply priced at £8.50, and had lumpy salmon on top of tiny avocado cuts so cold and hardened, that aggressive fighting would loose you a tooth. It did not sit well on the plate and was disappointing.

The mains read well: roast venison with dauphinoise potatoes and rump of lamb with fondant potato and shallot puree, then there’s mackerel and a delicious sea bream. My field mushroom risotto with shaved Parmesan (£13.00) was a small but thick, offering, sweet, sticky hanging risotto, just as it should be. It tasted rich and creamy and the thick wild mushrooms gave the dish a wild and necessary flavour. Truffle’s fillet of sea bass with creamed parsley mash potato, mange tout and champagne velouté (£16.50) gave me a sudden bout of food envy and on tasting the buttered fish, sent me into Meg Ryan moans of ecstasy. It was smooth like butterscotch and melted effortlessly on the tongue – a triumphant dish. I’ve had the game pie and lamb on previous visits and both are superb.

Friends have told me that the bar snacks are a delight in their own right and the scotch egg (£2.80) tasted delightful, ductile and snug in it’s rounded breadcrumb casing, oozing from its internal. Rock oysters are available at £1.50 each, Welsh rarebit is £4.00 and Sands End crackling (a fashionably named pork scratching I presume) is £3.50.

We enjoyed a light Pinot Noir (Domaine la Colombette 2007, £20.90) from a well-sourced and affordable list where prices start at £14.70 and are marked up with admirable restraint: £20 Beaujolais and a £22 Rioja, all the way up to £65 for Gevrey Chambertin and £79 at the summit for Chateau Rauzan Segla.

Desserts can literally be ‘the icing on the cake’ and are often a deal-breaker. They are good here. A treacle tart with malt ice cream (£5.50) has become one of my favourites (one evening last week I nipped down here and ordered the tart – who wasn’t in so I made do with a dessert. Ahem. Sorry – and a glass of Merlot). The panna cotta (£6.50) is flat though and a little routine, but fine.

Finishing with a double malt whisky (£6.00) – it just seemed right – fired the belly and it’s only a short stagger home anyway.

You can enjoy the buzz and flow of tourists in Borough Market on any day of the week. Saturday lunchtime – and Valentine’s Day at that – is probably not the best day to casually eye-up food stalls, sample freebies and find a table that’s not been booked for the past two months.

It is London’s oldest food market, standing in its original location for two hundred and fifty years. Along the South Bank, the Thames as your backdrop, Shakespeare’s Globe your neighbour, all eating establishments have their market flowing past their doors from morning till evening.

The Real Greek on Bankside has everything in its favour. There are other Real Greek restaurants in Spitafields, Westfield, Covent Garden, Marylebone, Putney, Clerkenwell, and the original in Hoxton, which opened in 1999. My opinion of Greek food is not great. I have not sampled enough to reach a conclusion. Like you, I’ve sampled the midnight kebab, booze injected and stumbling home from a night on the town, but true Mediterranean dining experience, no.

Walking in to any empty restaurant, on February 14th, is not a good omen. Our waitress walked us to a table in the corner at the back. This puzzled me. There was no one else there. Frankly, it would have been quicker catching a bus to our table. Why don’t they give you an Oyster card on arrival then let you pick a table of your choice?

Our welcome was cold. “This is your table, here is your menu, bye.” Puzzled by our introduction, I conversed with my guest who agreed and was also appalled. We were given the hospitality of a guilty man appearing in court.

From the hot Mezedes menu I ordered grilled kalamari marinated in paprika and honey (£5.75), along with a meat sharer (£25.00) consisting of pork, lamb and chicken, bifteki, meltitzanosalata, htipiti and flatbread. The kalamari had potential but was cold and rubbery and thus, ruined. The grilled sardines were fine, but that’s as much as I can say.

All the food arrived cold (much like the staff) and was served on layered plates. It looked uninspired, the skewered meat not enough to feed the starved homeless, and each dish accompanied by a huge wedge of lemon making enough, if all put back together, to create at least six whole lemons. The Greeks, the inventors of the Tragedy, had mastered another one, and it sat on a plate in front of me.

A £7.50 large glass of Cabinet Sauvignon washed down the mint, pepper and feta dips and a small flatbread did its best to fill my hungry belly with carbs.

Such bad experiences leave you with a predicament: do you stick with that which is familiar? Or, do you venture out, willing to try and experience new things? But stodge food is stodge food and at the end you are still left with a bill to pay (gratuity already included – of course). I should have stuck to my guns and face the fact that Greek food is decent only when drunk. If I hadn’t been out of breath from walking for miles, and didn’t have a twinge in my calf, I would have done a runner.

Finally, we found it. Nestled on a quiet residential street between Charing Cross Hospital and the Queen’s Club, the building sits unassumingly on a street junction, painted green panels and THE PEAR TREE in gold lettering across the entrance. Inside a dozen locals chewed the bar where two young girls stood carefully increasing the girth of their pulling arm and smiling happily to the drinkers.

We sat down in a corner – inside has a warming, polished wood, Cotswold feel – and as I leaned back the brace of my chair broke, snapping away from its support as I settled myself (and I’m average weight, or so I tell myself).

The menus are split across three blackboards, each occupying their own corner of the room. What’s on display is limited but interesting. Steering clear of standard traditional pub grub, there was lamb with cannelloni beans and a Ribeye steak with pan fried gnocchi and Jerusalem artichoke puree, to name a few.

The homemade Scotch egg (£3.75) was a lovely thing: crispy breadcrumbs (two seconds away from burnt) with a plump and runny egg at its center which oozed from its casing. The honey and mustard dressing that accompanied didn’t work and battled between textures: a honey sweetness and sharp mustard tang. I’d have preferred a homemade ketchup or hollandaise sauce.

For my main course I had the grilled mackerel with beetroot and chorizo salad (£11.75). The mackerel was a generous portion and came away easily from the spine; picking little bones from the fleshy meat is always laborious but the texture and taste made up for it. Best of all was the salad: crunchy greens with sanguine flushed beetroot and paprika-coloured, smoky chorizo cubes. My partner had the wild mushroom risotto with pork (£8.75): the risotto was fine but lacked the conventional gooeyness of sticky risotto and the pork was thinly sliced portions laid on top in an unimaginative style, its outer parameters holding fatty deposits.

The food is cooked and served in a relaxed atmosphere and the owner Lulu is on hand, conversing and serving. She is graceful with an easy charm and sits to chat with us. She and ‘Dazzler’ (Darren) took charge of the premises before Christmas and have a second pub in West London. ‘A pub belongs to everybody’ Lulu tells me. ‘Our aim is simple, to produce good food and good service.’

There were only two options for dessert: a rhubarb pana cotta or chocolate cheesecake (£4.25). We opted for the cheesecake, which was disappointingly tasteless. It was cold – perhaps left in the fridge too long – difficult to put a spoon through, and bland. It arrived with a simplistic presentation and a disagreeing sauce. We found it an effort to endure after only one mouthful.

It might seem unjust to compare pub food, harshly, with higher establishments or Michelin starred restaurants, but when you’re bold enough to state on your website that your head chef ‘previously worked in a Michelin star restaurant’, then the food does open itself to criticism. When asked which restaurant this was, I didn’t get a response, only that he has worked previously in Sweden. The pub is, however, inescapably in a greater position than it was a year ago and with the sun making its scanty appearances I’m sure locals will find themselves sipping ciders and wines in the garden, there’ll even be the locals ordering their usual and crunching through bags of peanuts and pork scratchings. The ambition will no doubt be to please both parties: locals and the influx of new custom. Those who you’ll need in the winter months – buying their beers and crisps – and those who can up the anti in the summer months, ordering lunches and group bottles of wine. It’s an onerous transition from local boozer to gastro pub, but it’s a path along which The Pear Tree is moving steadily.

The English Dictionary’s definition of Heron:

noun – “Any of numerous long-legged, long-necked, usually long-billed birds of the family Ardeidae, including the true herons, egrets, night herons, and bittons.”

No mention of colour, stripes, dots or multi-coloured oily feathers, yet The Painted Heron (restaurant and not to be confused with an actual painted heron – interfering with animal protesters and the RSPCA) in Chelsea, is certainly flying in the right direction.

Somewhat isolated along Cheyne Walk (sparsely separated like many fine dining Chelsea establishments: Chelsea Brassiere, Ramsey’s), the restaurant boasts The London Restaurant Award 2008 and a nomination for The Best Indian Restaurant 2008.

Head Chef Yogesh Datta’s innovative recipes make up the intricately flavoured dishes and the menu that has Indian restaurants up and down the country talking: Cornish albacore tuna in tandoori spices & fried cashew nuts, wood pigeon supremes tandoor roasted medium rare with hot & sour spices, tandoori Grouse (whole) with crispy fried potatoes, slow cooked lamb shank in hot curry with Rajasthani red chilli paste.

Datta has earned free reign over The Painted Heron after displaying magnificent techniques and creations at the Tabla in Canary Wharf, his signature style defined as, “Classical Indian cooking to the European environment by using carefully selected, top quality fresh indigenous and imported ingredients.” So that’s that then, maintaining all the spice, tickle and kick of classical Indian cuisine but with a stylish manner and modern-hand, presented in minimalist style to a European environment.

It is fine Indian cooking. The poppodoms were good, the dip choices superb. A cold avocado cools the taste buds back down to reality after both a cherry curry and garlic, onion and tomato mix. A terrific introduction. A glass of Sauvignon de Touraine followed (£5.50 175ml).

Wild catch soft-shell crabs fried in sesame & chilli batter (£7.50) was wonderful, a little tough, but packed a punch in flavour in only a small apt-sized appetizer. My father enjoyed the same choice (perhaps the greatest and most tested fan of soft-shell crab there is? Choosing to base himself by the Dorset coast for this very reason I think?).

There’s a blissful nonchalance about lunch here, notably that there are only three diners in the restaurant: my two guests and myself. It is surprisingly quiet. No rushing about the floor is needed. Like private dining, invitation eating, VIP treatment with the ego-blowing tofs looking down on the economy diners, except there weren’t any to gloat at! A weekly lunchtime table is perhaps not the best pick for a thriving atmosphere in an Indian restaurant; indeed I’ve never even had an Indian for lunch, have you?

Our meals arrive with plaudible timing and for now, we are the restaurant. I’m later informed that they are to full capacity tonight, though I will not be there to see.

Duck in green chutney curry with mint and coriander (£14.00) sent my tongue rolling. Meaty duck is just wonderful. On-the-bone duck chunks were a hassle to free but worth the sweat. There’s a well-sourced selection from the vegetable side-dishes and rice and breads: okra and mushrooms, stir-fried with dry mango powder, raita with home set yoghurt and cucumber, and my spinach & baby corn with cumin & garlic (£5.00). A simple boiled basmati rice (£3.00) is plain and unfussy, soaking up the flavors and spices of my dish, it needn’t be anything too overbearing. A second glass of Sauvignon followed.

That bendy, melting, rubber-tang cheese naan from the takeaway down the road makes me happy. This redefines the British perception of Indian cooking and the naan. Imagine coconut & pistachios nann (£3.00) and sweet with mango naan (£3.00), warm and fluffy with a nutty softness. The perfect envelope shape to wipe up the chutney curry in true peasant style. Delicious. A third Sauvignon.

There’s a sticky-sickly pudding of chocolate fondant. Whether it’s a case of 2 + 2 = 5, and that it’s working in the wrong direction from the menu, running head-on with the Indian main dishes, I’m unsure? It was too much, too thick and gloopey, too sweet a dish to follow. Not the palate-cleanser I needed. A scoop of soft ice-cream may have instead been the way forward? A traditional cooling lasse was missing.

And a fourth glass of Sauvignon.

It wasn’t so long ago that the spot where The Havelock Tavern stands was merely a shell of burnt construction and rubble after a freak fire accident was caused by a member of staff (seemingly a previous member of staff now?).

The co-owner and head chef Jonny Haughton, revealed the source of the blaze as a fag butt thrown by a member of staff into a dustbin, shortly before he and his business partner were about to finalise the pub’s sale for some two million quid. You’d hunt down that fag-tossing tosspot and hang him/her, wouldn’t you? This was in 2005 and the gastro-pub has now been rebuilt to its former glory, and it’s business as usual for the Brook Green tavern.

Friends who frequent the Havelock tell me that the food is superb and the bar always busy. I arrived for lunch to find the odd scatter of wealthy retired folk mashing their food, and gossiping yummy-mummys with their husbands (you’d hope), that Brook Green archetype that spill over from the Fulham fringes; all floppy-hair and jumpers looped around their shoulders.

The menu changes daily – which is usually a good thing – and exercises seasonal ingredients – a good thing. This stops the kitchen becoming stale and would explain why locals enjoy coming back here to dine so often, while the mummys and housewives can finger through their salads while sipping G&T’s (or is it ciders these days?) and moan like South-West London Sex in the City girls.

Fresh bread is displayed on the bar and the warm, doughy waft consumes the room. Starters on my visit included some rather fancypant offerings from a pub: caldo verdi: chorizo, potato and curly kale soup, chargrilled mackerel fillet with chickpea, white wine, tomato and leak stew and some deep fried white bait with smoked paprika aioli and lemon. I however, was on one of those express lunches so charged forward to the mains with duck leg confit with celeriac puree, roast parsnips, sprouting broccoli and gravy (£12.50).

The duck was soft and juicy with a crispy skin (just how it should be). It was a considerable size too, placed centrally on to the celeriac puree, a little too runny and sharp, and with beautifully roasted parsnips and crunchy broccoli (perfect, as broccoli can sometimes be too watery and drab). The gravy was rich and complimented the duck well and for pub grub this was top draw stuff.

I had a quick skim of the wine list and all appears to be in order, but with a weekend trip to Germany approaching I instead opted for a cold pint of Erdinger Weissbräu, a beer I can’t remember tasting before, so it was always going to be a risk, but a happy chance and a fine beer. Malted wheat with a cloudy colouring (5.3%).

Steamed ginger pudding with toffee sauce and vanilla ice cream (£5) had the pleasure of my company for dessert. I’ve tackled thousands of ginger and toffee puddings, but what set this particular one apart from the flock was the chewy surprise of steamed ginger pieces within the sponge. Each piece presenting that hint of spice, soon cooled off by the vanilla ice cream and sugary, yet mellowing, sweet, toffee sauce.

Ending with a hit of espresso before departing, I can only report wonderful things from the Havelock lunch. I’m impressed with an ever-changing menu full of delights, if I could have somehow squeezed in the slow cooked belly of pork and Lofty’s chocolate cake with crème fraîche then I would have. I’m full of superlatives for the chef and let’s just hope a new smoking area is fenced off thirty-seven miles down the road.

It’s Friday evening and I haven’t booked. My date Alicia is tugging at my sleeve in complaint, making her irritation known. The Fulham restaurants of stature are glowing with busy diners and those I wouldn’t be seen dead in are not worth my consideration; however at this rate Chicken Go Go may be our evening setting?

We walk towards the Broadway and Alicia suggests we try the Harwood Arms. “Without a reservation?” I reply. “Harwood Arms in Fulham? With the Michelin star? Who serve the venison Scotch egg?” So, with no other plan we threw caution to the wind and turned into the quiet suburban road where the famed gastrobub sits (depressingly coloured) and entered, praying for a tray and seat in the toilets at the most.

As expected, the sparsely decorated room (“painted pale Farrow & Ball shades” said Giles Coren) was full of romantic couples, with upscale French families and the odd pick of neighbourhood natives, no doubt surprised to find their local wrapped in euphoria and out-of-towners since January walking on their patch, sitting on their stalls and drinking their ales.

The Michelin-starred gastrobub is one of a kind in London. It was a new entry for the prestigious award in 2010 along with The Pipe & Glass Inn in Beverley, Yorkshire and Michael Parkinson’s The Royal Oak in Paley Street, Berkshire.

The food is good rural pub grub, served cleanly and simply. My deer and walnut terrine (£6.50) was served with a salad of chicory and pickled prunes and warm crunchy toast. Presented on a tree trunk – okay, modernist wooden plate – it was a decent size for a starter. The terrine was powerful in flavour and soft to cut but there was a clear outweigh between pâté and toast, as there always is, it must be impossible to achieve – there is never enough bread, pita, chapatti, naan, damper or bagel to accompany and spread-on or mop up with.

Air-dried Cumbrian ham (£4.50) from the Bar Menu was again served on a tree trunk (a littler flatter and lighter wood this time) and there was plenty of it for two people. The thin slices had a fraction of smokiness and importantly, weren’t over-salted. There were a few pathetic lettuce leaves nipped and thrown on top that appeared pointless and added nothing, but some hearty apple slices were a nice sweet addition.

On a separate blackboard from the Bar Menu was written “Pigeon legs £3”. So what the heck, we ordered some of them as Alicia had never tried them before. I’m not even sure I have? Pigeon breast certainly, but their scraggy little legs…? They arrived snapped and caramelised on a small white plate. Easy to pick up and finger but bony little buggers, and not much meat. Still, what they did carry was good and a well-priced delicacy at £3.00.

A lovely blonde waitress named Sophie reintroduced the wine list after we decided that we did need something to wash this feast down with, and we ordered a bottle of Albariño at £29.00. It’s expensive but one of the cheapest in their wine list and it’s one of the freshest whites I’ve had, with notes of soft peaches, and I believe a much nicer choice over Chardonnay. It was Sophie’s birthday on our visit and she found an Aussie sister in Alicia and they hit it off. Fine for me, while they nattered about yearning for home luxuries (Vegemite and Tim Tams), I covertly finished the last few pigeon legs. Everyone’s a winner… except the pigeon.

And so to the Scotch egg. The venison Scotch egg to be precise, priced at £2.50. I’ll be writing more about this (and others) at a later date, but to continue with the review of this celebrated one. I’d asked Jay Rayner where he thought the best Scotch egg in London could be found, “Harwood Arms,” he replied, “no contest”. This is how I had known about the accolade when Alicia suggested the Harwood Arms. She suggests a pub and all I’m aware of is that they produce a spankingly ace Scotch egg!

The first thing you notice is that it’s deep-fried and crispy and has a sprinkling of Maldon salt on top. It sits proud and spherical on a square of grease-proof paper, just wooing me to sink in and release its runny yolk. ‘Egging’ me on, if you will.

The breadcrumbs are warm and light and the venison meat holds perfectly the inner-casing of comfy white and fluent yellow yolk. Surprisingly, it isn’t overcooked and the centre is not a rubbery texture of gooey compound. Like a Dime bar it’s ‘smooth on the inside, crunchy on the out’. There’s a warming crunch before the meat and then you’re layered into the egg. For a product which appears almost inconspicuous on the Bar Menu it’s a real gem and the Harwood Arms have rightly become famous for such a thing.

There is a rusty trail across my keyboard. Oval fingerprints for dendrochronology punched on selected keys. Chestnut colouring from my grubby fingers. It’s the Hickory marinade from a devoured carcass. The sweet lubricant of a meaty feast that has left me with sticky fingers.

Bill Wyman’s Sticky Fingers – opened in 1989 – in Kensington is packed with rock and roll memorabilia, and during my visit – the October half term – parents and their darling children (with names like Camilla, Beatrice, Charles and Walter). The former Rolling Stone bringing a portion of American diner to a West London backstreet. Think Planet Hollywood and Hard Rock Café, but with strictly Stones paintings, pictures and platinum albums.

The menu is a sticky American banquet. There is the obvious: Buffalo Wings, Beef Chilli Potato Skins, Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich and Smoked Chicken Cob. There are three steak options: Sirloin 10oz (£15.95), Ribye 14oz (£16.95) and an 8oz Fillet (£17.95) – + £4.95 for three Tiger prawns, adding, “Surf to your Turf”. Chargrilled British beef burgers, the classic, and award winning, Sticky Fingers Burger priced at £9.45, all looked stacked with ingredients and appetising. The Sticky Fingers Burger arrived with lettuce, tomato and fries on a long, clean white plate. Reports from my partner were good.

My Hickory Smoked Ribs (smothered in bbq sauce – St. Louis style! I should know, I lived there! Not as good as Kansas City style bbq and the famous KC Masterpiece), was again served on a long, clean white plate, with my choice of sides: mash and onion rings. The mash was clumpy and unimpressive, but was far from being the main event, which lay across my plate. The vertebrate anatomy.

Did you know that humans have 24 ribs (12 pairs)? This means I was tackling half a human ribcage on my own. Well, meaty baby back ribs from a full-flavoured beast.

For those of a more sensitive nature – thanks for sticking with me – there is Pan Roasted Fillet of Sea Bass (£13.95) and Spinach & Ricotta Ravioli (£9.95), but frankly, if ploughing your way through a marinated carcass in rigamortis is not for you, then you really shouldn’t be here anyway.

Two (or five) glasses of Rioja Crianza, 2005 (£7.60 a glass) delivered spice with supple tannins, from a rounded list containing some of my best-loved reds.

Dare to share the dessert? Not me. The Table-side Campfire is well priced at £4.95 and includes toasted marshmallows, Oreo cookies, fresh strawberries and chocolate fondue. A romantic sharer. Not today. It was the $10 shake for my companion. But we’re in the UK, so cost £5. Vanilla and Jack Daniels (aka Keith Richards!). A tasty round off.

NOTE: Sticky Fingers is the ninth studio album by The Rolling Stones, released in April 1971.