London

I’ve fallen into the trap many times before, most memorably at a rather pukka fine-dining place on Koh Samui. I’d put aside thoughts of the (very nice) Vasse Felix white on offer, partly due to a misplaced sprit of adventurousness and partly due to the extraordinary price of the imported Aussie wine. Foolishly also spurning the very pleasant local beers, I opted for a Thai white from north of Bangkok. Hair raising.

As Speedboat bar is about as authentic a Thai beach bar and nosh hall as you can get this side of Phuket, I swore to restrict myself to Singha, Leo (Singha’s down-at-heel cousin) et al. And then, there it was – one of Sybille Kuntz’s Mosel Qualitätsweine passing by in a fantastically iconoclastic, pop-art-inspired wine sleeve. Resistance was futile. Dry, crisp but with a ghost of Riesling ‘Extract Süße’, it went so well with the lovely spiced-up grub.

We started with snacks conjured from cauldrons of boiling oil: sweetcorn fritters (crusty and properly cobby), shattery chicken skins dusted with Zaep seasoning (an in-house term for a spice mix heavy on the chilli and citrus) and crispy pork with Prik Nam Som (the ubiquitous vinegary, pickled-chilli stuff that the Thais adore). More substantials came in the shape of an umami rubble of beef with holy basil and a particularly good black-pepper curry proving how delicious and versatile pepper can be as a spice.

The array of delicious SE Asian sausages is just beginning to reach the European consciousness (and seemed omnipresent on a recent trip to Thailand): smoky, sweet, pork, chicken, liver … innumerable variations. Here, Naem (a Thai/Laotian fermented-pork version) were added profitably to fried rice. Noodles and whole fish to be had, too, in the downstairs, melamine affair or up top in the pool-bar area (that's pool as in the bar-billiards type affair, no budgie smugglers needed).

Buzzing, informal outpost of Koh Somewhereorrather on Rupert St (N.B. the ‘other bit’, south of Shaftesbury Av).

POTL, apparently. I prefer Prawn on’t Lawn with its suitably N1 northern twang. Or maybe Crevettes sur l’herbe with fin de siècle, Manet credentials and the suggestion of naked, seafood picnics c. 1860. Either way, this is my first time at Prawn on the Lawn in Islington. And my, how Highbury banlieue has come on since I last clutched my cloak about me and hurried through on the way to somewhere nicer! Some rather chic-looking restos now: Trullo seemed promising and I found the husband having a pre-dinner snifter in the very pleasant Yield N1 across a busy St Paul’s Rd.

POTL was itself a great mix of seafood bar and fishmongery, scrubbed-table wonderfulness. Fantastic raw carabineros with ailo blanco, hake with truffle and porcini, deep-fried oysters with garlic crème fraîche, whole gurnard stuffed with chilli and herbs, deeply smoky taramasalata and the like. And everything looked tip-top fresh and clear-eyed (baring us of course) as it should being shipped daily from the south-west (they have another place in Padstow, too).

Quite a lot of Pet Nat, No&low, Session IPA tomfoolery which you can ignore. Head for the goodly list of fish-friendly whites and reds (nice touch): Tempranillo, PNs, Dolcetto. Unusually, also a dark ‘n dangerous Puglian Negroamaro … wonder if anyone orders that with their prawns! We plumped for the reasonably priced Verdicchio (di Jesi) which flowed nicely to the accompaniment of wild hipster chefs wrestling whole John Dory at the pass. Kitchen theatre at its finest. A good time was had by all (except, I suspect, the John Dory).

Good fishiness for when you wash up on Islington shores.

Usually the last thing I’d order from a tapas menu, tortilla is invariably solid, eggy, boarding-house-breakfast drudgery. I groaned inwardly when my dining compadre suggested it, looking wistfully and none too subtly at the stacks of Scottish Langoustine staring from their bed of ice behind the bar. But I’d forgotten we were in Barrafina, its Theatre Land incarnation to be exact, where we'd popped for a spot of Sevilliano fiesta-ing pre Carmen at the ROH. The tortilla that arrived was the best I’ve eaten anywhere, including Andalucía! A thin crust of buttery egg giving beneath the slightest pressure to dispense a dense golden-red lava of à point yolkiness enlivened with onion and potato. Simple but extremely good. 

Gambas rojas, sweet and charmingly rose-coloured, can never be ignored on a menu. We didn’t and were glad of it. And fried things that go so well with chilled sherry, tinto de verano or beer in southern Spain, croquetas, little salt-cod fritters, padrón peppers et al, were all present and correct: promptly, professionally and friendly-ly served. Shoals of whole fish and monsters of the deep (squid etc) beckoned from the plancha for those with fish on the mind and Albariño in the glass.

Great sherry menu (sadly, not always a given in Spanish restaurants), with Manzanillas outnumbering Finos in true Jerez style. Not a Malbec or Sauvignon Blanc in sight either, just a stroll through the Spanish vinous landscape from straightforward Navarra Garnachas (a red and a white) up to a trinity of Vega Sicilia Riberas. And Llopart Cava, too: excellent choice of CORPINNAT bubbles.

Very nice, if not quite as exceptional as I remember the Soho original.

I sailed into Richmond once – without doubt the only way to arrive – the early-morning glint off the Thames turning the riverside into a series of Venetian palaces, noble Dodges’ dwellings blanched white by the mist-filtered sunlight. All other modes of arrival are, of course, horrific: your choice of District Line ennui or A316 roundabout hell. When you do moor up, you’d be forgiven for feeling a little underwhelmed by the choice of eateries. An awful lot of chain-arama needs picking through to find anything truly interesting. It’s there, though: Petersham Nurseries (no longer Skye Gyngell-ified but still good); Chez Lindsay’s reassuringly gallic fayre; the lovely Bingham (for when the Christmas bonus drops); even the Germans down by the water (Stein’s) for fair-weather beer ‘n wurst.

Don’t go to Richmond for value, innovation or pizazz. Do, however, go for The Britannia.

Its pubby charms are to be found in one of the cramped, tourist-jostled alleys off the Green. Falling through the door, you’re met immediately by stairs to a first-floor dining room; it also leads to a traffic jam and a bit of good-natured tangoing with the hosts. They’re super-friendly, though, so cloak checking is done with the minimum of fuss/Argentine elbowing. A lovely oak bar presides downstairs where white-linened tables are populated by a mix of understated old money, spryer types and foodie-folk. What you don’t get, mercifully, are the hoards of day-trippers that drown out the rest of Richmond’s sedate hum. Calm here, soporific even; somewhere I’d happily move into, having just the right ambience of comfy, spaniel-basket warmth.

A glass of Crémant de Bourgogne from the excellent, Bordeaux-'n-Burgundy-heavy wine list started things off. Being a Sunday and lunchtime, we figured Sunday lunch was in order. Lovely twice-cooked herb soufflés (a-top a winning velouté) scudded by like cheese-encrusted clouds and were followed by roast meats of distinction. I went for chicken. Which I never do. I was intrigued. All was present and correct: good bread saucery/sorcery, forcemeat and a stuffed leg to go with perfectly cooked and generously portioned breast meat. Goodly gravy, too, and the best roast potatoes (duck-fat basted and shattering) I’ve eaten from a commercial kitchen. The roast pork shoulder and sirloin of beef looked excellent, too.

We went with their wine suggestion: a very good Steinmetz Riesling. Service was slick and bonhomous. I’ll pass over the grave(y) sin of serving a Yorkshire pudding with anything other than beef. It’s personal peccadillo I suppose, besides it didn’t prevent me from scoffing the darn thing.

Tasty and snuggly. Recommended!