Norwich’s food scene has come on leaps and bounds in the last few years and you can now find some genuinely intriguing independent places amongst the faceless chain-arama of yore. “The Norwich Lanes” (Pottergate to the locals), shamelessly rebranded to steal some of Brighton’s thunder, Upper St Giles and St Benedict’s are the places to “gyre and gimble” (which, incidentally, is the name of a rather nice bar and distillery close by). Thanks to cunning medieval town planners (who clearly had lunch in mind) these areas are but a stone’s throw from each other so wandering and grazing is a simple matter. 

Here’s my pick of the bunch: a veritable fine-dining institution, a wonderfully authentic French bistro, a truly outstanding fish ‘n chip emporium, some boho chicery, and finally a bit of flame-throwing, tomahawk-steak-wielding man-theatre that nonetheless manages to be entirely memorable.

N.B. Richard Bainbridge's Benedicts, one of the highlights of the local scene, has its own review.

Insalubrious is perhaps a little strong, so let’s just say unpromising. Not a particularly gallant description of the building currently occupied by Brix and Bones but a fair assessment. It’s not their fault as they are “upstairs” which means that to some extent they are at the mercy of whatever goes on below (at my time of visiting, the boarded-up nothingness of a work in progress). But it would be an enormous mistake to turn away. Once in and up the stairs, the place is lovely, lively and offers up some brilliantly conceived and executed food. The staff are attentive, knowledgeable and seem to actually enjoy working here (not always a given). They sat us at the pass for a full view of the culinary theatre – highly recommended.

There wasn’t a single thing on the menu that I didn’t want to order immediately. A good sign. An embarrassment of riches for confirmed carnivores, there’s venison, mutton and meat lockers worth of beautifully aged beef as well as the odd, clever dive into the sea. We started with a deeply savoury, decidedly hand-made, merguez sausage nestling on sauerkraut and seasoned with just a hint of anchovy. This accompanied a lovely mutton and pheasant creation – a sort of croquette, although that mimsy word hardly does justice to the depth of its umami, katsu-inflected crunch.

The main events came in the shape of a stone-age-sized pork chop, crustily charred and perfectly cooked inside, served with a sweet/sour fennel gravy and dusted with katsuobushi (bonito flakes). Its companion, slices of mutton leg with wild garlic verde, was tender, yielding and surprisingly light.

The side dishes were every bit as good: proper buttery mash with crispy chicken skin and carroty carrots cooked just so and intriguingly with kombucha. To drink, we treated ourselves to a Rasteau from Domaine Gramiller: brilliant (see my full Tasting Note for details). The bone-marrow fudge doughnut that finished off proceedings was everything I had hoped (see pic). Sadly, it’s sparring partner, a sea buckthorn tart, wasn’t available that night but I would go back for it given the standard of the rest of the menu. Altogether, this was astonishingly assured cooking which is unsurprising perhaps given the presence in the kitchen of George Wood, formerly of London’s Temper and Smokehouse.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a famous restaurant critic ventured into the provinces. He happened upon a tiny outpost of France in the back streets of Norwich (“The Lanes” in fact) and had a thoroughly good time. Hurrah. Quite rightly, L’Hexagone slapped his review on their front page. And there it remains. Things here are decidedly, as Monsieur Raynor pointed out, small: limited of table and restrained of menu. But that’s a definite plus – it’s an exquisite, jewel-like restaurant (not six-sided I think, but I didn’t count) with a reassuringly focussed, quintessentially Gallic menu.

“Authentic” is a positively horrid term for a chef’s oeuvre: over-used and pretty meaningless. Nevertheless, having eaten my way round France a few hundred times, I can declare this restaurant authentic in the way one might a ship fit to sail or (if Oscar Wilde) one’s genius. The genius here (at the risk of paraphrasing my esteemed forerunner) is to stick to the staples of French gastronomy and do them well. And that’s no mean feat as many French bistros have entirely forgotten the art.

There’s a steak tartare which you won’t order. It’s a strange French ritual (Escoffier blamed it on the Americans). No one likes it this side of the channel, where the English feel obliged to order it in some Brexit-defying bonhomie and then fork through it dreaming of a medium-rare burger slapped unceremoniously between two buns – à l'américaine no doubt. The remainder of the menu though is France as it once was, might be somewhere still, and certainly should be again (I exaggerate, you can still eat very well even in the back streets of Paris if you are tenacious and pretend to be Canadian). 

Delightfully handled bavette frites, proper crème brûlée (i.e. not the fluffy, corn-starch horror of many a franglais menu) are served with charm and warmth. Simple, even over-familiar, menu terms like soupe a l’oignon and mousse au chocolat should announce marvellous things – and here, they do. There’s a Crémant de Loire, a Muscadet sur lie, a red and a white Chinon to drink (surely these guys are from the Loire?) and a Cahors Malbec for when you are feeling sultry.

Getting a fish 'n chip shop right is a tricky business. So much part of our cultural history and memory that any deviation from the norm is met with scepticism, even moral outrage. Aim too low and you’re in deep-fried-burger, anti-social-behaviour-on-the-street territory; aim too high and you lose touch with the essentially working-class roots of it all. There are a select few who have cracked it: The Mayfair Chippy is one, Victorian-tiled and with a delightfully moreish menu or fish! Kitchen in Kingston-upon-Thames which sources fish from its own fishmonger, Jarvis, next door. 

Über fresh, excellent quality fish and superb chip-shop chips are a must, but how often have one or other (or both) been scandalously absent? You also want a bit of flair and a few things beyond the ubiquitous cod, haddock and plaice.

The Grosvenor Fish bar has it down pat. It shares the outré decor of its boho neighbours: beneath the pretty standard but wildly friendly/efficient take away lies a charming dine-in cellar where fighter-bomber zinc panelling and the odd whiff of damp somehow only stands to enhance the briny, vinegar tang of its crispy-fried ambiance. Who needs windows and natural light when you have the likes of soft-shelled crab buns with fried green tomatoes and Po-boy sauce or the jauntily named Seven Quid Squid with garlic aioli to tuck into.

There are plenty of more trad things like cod cheeks and battered sea bass, but both the familiar and the new offer real, tasty value. Wine comes with limited “white Sauvignon” and “French rosé” credentials and is palatable if nothing more. But you can cheer yourself up with the battered gherkins (pictured) – unmissable.

I’ve been eating, dining perhaps, at Roger Hickman’s place for yonks. It used to be called Adlard’s and we enjoyed that too, until my mother got the knock with them (she was a great one for “the knock”: it probably wasn’t their fault). At least one graduation celebration, a few birthdays and any number of feasts for no occasion have been hosted in these sainted halls – it’s that sort of place. Unashamedly fine dining, it manages to be neither overly formal nor absurdly stylised. Impeccable sourcing, nuanced, assured cooking and the best wine list for miles (including a couple of unmissable wine pairings that have been put together with flair and intelligence) have seen it presiding imperiously over the city’s dining scene for decades.

I once ate at one of Richard Corrigan’s places in Soho that was so small I felt I was in some sort of art installation rather that out for a relaxing supper. Luckily the dining room here, although intimate, is sufficiently roomy and well planned to inspire and comfort in equal measure. Starched table cloths but not starchy atmosphere. I understand there’s a newish private dining space as well which, although I haven’t seen it, is sure to be pukka.

We’re in tasting-menu territory here, but bear with – that’s not necessarily bad news. What it means for a chef is that they can concentrate on what they do best: with luck, a well-considered, seasonal affair as here. They are fans of the “series of disconnected nouns” school of menu writing, so it’s hard to offer any real sense of what’s on offer other than to say that the likes of duck confit, intelligently chosen cuts of beef and some nicely prepared fish are all handled with consummate skill. There is, to be fair, nothing on the menu to frighten the horses (which sometimes, frankly, need a bit of geeing up) but to name it excellent, dependable British cooking might seem a little churlish. It’s better than that: three Rosettes better in fact. Plus I recall good table linen (these things are important to the professional pedant, you see).

The louche charms of St Benedict’s are freely given, in fact they rather thrust themselves upon you. There’s little point in trying to resist. Slightly disreputable galleries mingle with vinyl record shops, an arts centre, temples to vegan food and the odd Rosette-heralded fine diner (one in fact, Richard Bainbridge’s Benedict’s). It’s a heady, sometimes pungent brew and more than a little intoxicating. If Norwich had beat poets, they would live here (no doubt in one of the many ancient, flint-faced churches that seem to step back slightly from the thoroughfare’s modern-day Vanity Fair). This is probably the closest Norwich comes to the authentic North Laine vibe, if slightly too self-consciously to pull it off with complete success.

Slap bang in the middle of things sits The Bicycle Shop which rolls up its more-shabby-than-chic bamboo blinds at 10am every morning to welcome a motley crew of knitwear-clad Guardian readers, out of work sociology lecturers and the odd hungry food writer. Wobbly scrubbed tables, mismatched ‘70s crockery and a veritable jungle of the potted and the planted provide a low-key backdrop to a small, winsome menu. Breakfast and brunch offer forth things like black pudding hash (very nice) and, appropriately, a collection of benedicts; after the noon clocks have chimed in the luncheon hour, they are joined by charcuterie, cheesy things, the odd passing risotto and cakes.

In the evening, the lights are turned down and out come the candlewax encrusted bottles. The veggie-friendly supper menu focuses on roasted favourites like butternut squash with various sauces and pestos of the walnut and wild-garlic ilk. There are usually a couple of meaty dishes as well. The food is good, if somewhat less radical than the clientele’s politics one suspects, and the wine list short but playful. An excellent place to sink into chipped-chintz revery with your favourite dog-eared paperback. There’s a pleasant, velocipede rhythm to its hospitality; it’s dog-friendly too which adds to the warm snugglines.

Imaginative Italian cooking at the hands of MasterChef: The Professionals finalist Oliver Boon. Parmesan croquettes beloved of Grace Dent.

Great bakery and café in Upper St Giles (and other local outlets). Not only cinnamon, but cardamon buns!

Purveyors of creative, Asian stickiness. Northern Thai Sour Pork Curry with hash brown, crispy egg and green mango salad? Life-affirming.

Jolly good coffee roasted by their good, jolly selves. Couple of venues citywide but main one in St Giles (of course!)

Minimalist bakery hidden in the Golden Tringle, selling wonderful fresh-baked goods and superlative sausage rolls.

Re-opened and revivified. Good value menu du jour and wide-ranging wine list.