The Booking Office, St Pancras Station, London, 06.07.12

St Pancras station is beautiful. The most recent restoration, completed in 2007, firmly rooted this magnificent Victorian building as forward-thinking, stylish international hub. On ground floor level is a smart but functional selection of favourite high street shops and eating establishments to suit any taste. However, it is on the first floor, where the trains are, that the magic happens. There is something quite enchanting about being able to sit in the St Pancras Champagne bar and sip Veuve whilst only a glass wall separates you from several hundred tonnes of sexy Eurostar train. I must confess here that train travel is my preferred mode of transport, and I have been rather fond of them since I was a lad of 3, but don't get me wrong, I'm not a camera wielder or number collector, just a distant admirer.

As well as the trains and champagne bars, the first floor also boasts The Oyster Bar restaurant and The Booking Office, the latter of which we were lucky enough to dine at. It is beautifully restored. The old wooden panelling adds gravitas, the restored red brick adds warmth, and the sheer height of the ceiling finishes off this truly magnificent setting. The atmosphere is embellished by a stylish, European feel to the low chairs and service, and they have adopted the old fashioned serving model of kitchen porters delivering the goods to the shop floor, for the waiting staff to dish out.

To start, the British charcuterie plate (or rather wooden slab) looked fit to burst and was a generous portion indeed. Whilst a simple dish, it was a clever and discrete nod to Europe. The clam chowder provided creamy mouthfuls of delicate sea, neither over-salted nor overly fishy. Its only flaw was an unfortunate skin which must have been missed at the kitchen pass, or more likely it sat there too long under hot lights whilst several more pigs were commandeered to load up the charcuterie plate.

The medium rare rib eye steak had spent a couple too many seconds in the heat, but it was more than acceptable. The chips, which arrived in their own little basket, were triple cooked and beautifully crisp (why cook once or twice when you can keep going a third time?). A rather boisterous half bulb of garlic accompanied the steak, and it was not clear whether it was decorative or actually intended to have been roasted and therefore a true accompaniment. Either way, it was not quite at home, and needed some significant additional oven time to soften and sweeten it up.

The oxtail and kidney pie was attractive enough in its own pot, but there was a disappointing chasm between the pastry and the filling. It provided a decent enough depth of gamy flavours, but needed more kidney and a little less oiliness. The accompanying ramekin of buttered peas and carrots paled into insignificance against more delicious triple cooked chips.

To finish, a true girder of Yorkshire curd tart was accompanied by golden raisin ice cream. The pastry was stunning- light and firm but with a gentle flake if challenged. The only disappointment was, again, a sloppy kitchen pass, resulting in a slick of renegade ice cream gently slicking across an otherwise lovely looking dish. The sherry trifle with orange biscotti was heavy on the whipped cream, but also generous on the sherry. The only confusion was an accompanying pot of granola which livened up the cream but presented Muller yoghurt-esque dilemmas.

There's no doubt that the Booking Office is a special place and a great first London encounter for anyone hopping off the train. However, if it wants to impress our European cousins there are still a few Ps and Qs that need a thoroughly British ticking off.

Barbican Food Hall, Barbican Centre, London, 21.06.12

I should start by declaring a conflict of interest. I love the Barbican. There is something alluring and safe about its pedestrianised greyness, its maze of walkways and plants dripping from the concrete in summer. Furthermore, I love the Barbican Centre. My other life as a keen muso draws me here frequently, usually to hear the LSO (my preferred London orchestra) or just to hang out in the foyers and Red Bar, and feel included.

I sometimes eat at the Barbican Food Hall, which is found on the ground floor, looking out onto the concourse with the fountains. It is relaxed and functional, but still manages to ooze a touch of class with its retro metal seats and white tiles. The cake selection is nothing short of marvellous- an enormous plinth that greets you with smile of currants and carrots as you walk in. The more substantial food selection is divided into a salad bar and a hot food counter, serving comforting lasagnes and other favourites.

Unfortunately, today was disappointing. I opted for the salad option, which includes a choice of main "thing" (cold cuts of chicken, beef, little vegetarian tarts etc) and a selection of three cold salads. I opted for what appeared to be a beetroot cured salmon, along with a selection of three of the tastiest looking accompaniments from the selection of six. The plate looked pretty, but was somewhat of a culinary haiku. I jested to the woman on the till about the curtailment of portion size, and she commenced a rant about how the managers had been getting strict recently, chastising those staff who were over generous. I nodded sympathetically, before realising that it was me who was ultimately hard done by.

The cured salmon was an attractive dark red, but was bland and lacked flavour. It was more of a lack-lustre sashimi. The brocolli was pan fried with almonds, but would have challenged those with poor dentition, and was burnt around the edges. All the sauce seemed to have fallen off the penne, but the occasional lump of melty soft aubergine made up for it. The chickpeas were dry and did not seem to have had much more treatment than a splash of vinegar. Their lack of glue set them rolling off my fork.

Perhaps I have a bigger appetite than the average Barbicanite, but I felt that for an investment of £7.50 I was provided with poor returns. Next time I will stick to the soup.

The Wet Fish Cafe, West Hampstead, London, 14.06.12

As you wind your way down West End Lane in West Hampstead, you are faced with an abundance of eating options. The generic restaurants are present en masse, but West Hampstead also offers numerous independent outlets for the more discerning crowd. The Wet Fish Cafe is situated half way down the high street, and in previous decades served as various reincarnations of the local fishmonger. In more recent years it has progressed into a casual and yet refined eaterie, boasting its trademark art deco wall tiles.

The dinner menu comprised a mixture of starters and appetisers, including favourites like mackerel pate, deep fried squid, and scallops. The seafood platter to share was as pretty as a picture. Two enormous and perfectly seared scallops nestled amongst gravadlax, a handful of squid rings and a bucket-load of crayfish. The waiting staff seemed a little surprised by our request for some bread, but after its delayed arrival we set to work. The gravadlax was plentiful but plain, the squid a little on the soggy side, and the crayfish needed livening up with the marie rose style sauce.

We remained loyal to the ocean with the main courses, and a generous fillet of ling was served riding a cylinder of green quinoa, accompanied by a tartar style sauce. Ling is a meaty white fish akin to monkfish and needs a firm slice with the knife rather than a gentle tease of flakes like haddock or cod. It was cooked with respect, moist but perhaps a little underseasoned. Unfortunately the quinoa was bland and the accompanying sauce a touch overpowering, although the idea was right, with this particular fish needing a kick of acidity to cut through the creamy meat texture. The sea bass fillets were simply pan fried, and accompanied by a generous portion of risotto and sliced fennel. 

The overall experience was not overwhelming, but the Thursday night ambience gently ticked over with enough customers to keep it feeling busy. The service was somewhere between relaxed and a touch disinterested, but not enough to get upset about. In this sense the Wet Fish Cafe presents somewhat of a dilemma. West Hampstead offers the solidly performing generics at about two thirds the price, but whether the Wet Fish Cafe has the punch to pull the punters back for second helpings only they can tell you.

Kick the coffee bucket

Today, a few unscientific thoughts about coffee. In true disclaimer style, all views are my own, with very little foundation in the culture or science of the mighty bean. Over the past few years I have a developed a keen interest in these beautiful, caffeinated kernels. It all started with a stormy but ultimately productive love affair with my Gaggia Cubika espresso machine. Gaggia is a well respected Italian brand, but my initial dates with sleek, brushed steel Cubika left me flat. I wanted crema and depth. She produced stale, black water. I pulled myself together and eventually confessed the old adage, "It's not you, it's me". After giving the old girl a good descale, I bought her some decent coffee to spit on.

And there lies part of the secret to good coffee- not only decent beans, but the freshest possible grind. And fresh means really fresh. I discovered Two Day Coffee Roasters in Bristol after a chance introduction by my friend Jonathan. Perched in a small but perfectly formed shop at the top of St Michaels Hill, this husband and wife venture buys bags of beans from smaller growers, and then fires them up on site, billowing acrid coffee clouds onto the street outside. The scent is alluring, with an ever changing line up of coffee varieties available by the 100g, and served in neat, brown paper bags. Luckily, it was after discovering Two Day Coffee Roasters that Cubika started to return my affections. All of a sudden her crema was thick and dark, and espresso beneath was smooth and mild. Our relationship was back on track.

My next revelation was all about grinding. Two Day Coffee Roasters would always ask you the intended destination of your beans, be it espresso or french press. When I tried to replicate it on my cheap and cheerful home grinder, Cubika started to sulk again. It must have been the texture she disliked, and on subsequent enquiry I was informed that succesful home grinding required an expensive, burr based technology at the very least. Back to Jonathan, who was pleased to give me a demonstration of his beautiful Kitchenaid grinder which, in combination with his Rancilio Silvia machine, produced a dark velvet crema and an unparalelled depth of espresso flavour. Poor Cubika began to appear somewhat frumpy in comparison to Silvia's solid and faithful body. At three times the price, I would expect so too. At this point, I felt that my coffee obsession was starting to run too far. I spent night shifts trawling through coffee review websites trying to identify the sexiest machine in my budget. I added them to my basket, only to be interrupted by emergencies that stopped me from buying.

As a nation, we would now like to think that we are coffee wise, slurping lattes and cappucini by the gallon load each day. We certainly seem to have sailed past our American counterparts, who still give their hard earned dollars to slurp stale filter coffee from polystyrene cups. But who are we kidding? You don't see the Spanish swanning round Madrid with takeaway coffee cups big enough to bathe in. The Italians don't sit with a sinkful of cappucino in the late afternoon. We've adopted a pseudo coffee culture now, which our European cousins must think is rather bizarre. The idea of half a litre of hot milk with a espresso hiding in the bottom sounds unappealing on paper. On the continent, coffee is much more functional. It's an espresso. It's cheap. It's freely available. Most importantly, it's a quick affair, perhaps accompanied by a glass of water in acknowledgement of the physiological need to rehydrate and of caffeine's diuretic consequences. Maybe our cooler climate has led us into our love affair with the "longer" coffees. Perhaps our age-old obsession with voluminous cups of tea will prevent us from ever moving towards an espresso culture.

However, there are signs that things might be improving. The appearance on the market of the flat white gives me hope. The Australians are big fans, and there is a Soho coffee shop that takes its name from this middle-grounder. Unfortunately, some of the bigger chains have labelled it as an "artisan" drink, with a price to match. In fact, it is delightfully simple. Espresso, not much milk, no unnecessary foam, no bucket sized cup, and no Cadbury style sprinkles on the top. If you're not going to drink espresso, and consider a macchiato as a messy sneeze, then a flat white is your man.

But now that I have convinced you to resolve your coffee mistakes of the past, where should you find that authentic espresso, or a non artisan flat white? The answer probably lurks round the corner from your office or on your walk home. Perhaps, like me, yours is parked up on the pavement. Ditch the chains. Try local, small and independent, until you find something you like. Don't treat your grande massivo as a fashion accessory. Keep your coffee small and quick. My recent discovery parks outside Waterloo station, and provides me with a no frills cup of goodness at two thirds of the price as its well known competitors around the corner.

And if you're feeling really brave, go and buy a Rancilio, and start an obsession.

Blue Print Cafe, Shad Thames, London 26.03.12

A little springtime sunshine is the perfect excuse to find oneself in the lofty Blue Print Cafe, which sits alongside the Design Museum in Shad Thames. The glass walls gave an unparalleled vista of Tower Bridge and the weekend river traffic, and the restaurant space itself felt airy and uncluttered.

Lunch was a choice of the excellent value £12.50 two course set piece versus the slightly more expensive (£16 for a main) a la carte menu. A crisp and earthy sourdough started things off cordially, and was followed by a chicken liver parfait with toast and homemade chutney. The parfait was generous and silky, but paled into insignificance in comparison to the succulent tiger prawns with a mango coulis. I do not often choose pork but thought I would give it chance today after experiencing a rather glorious serving of pork belly a few weeks ago. A well seasoned cutlet arrived on a bed of cabbage braised with cream and pancetta. The pork only just managed to retain enough moisture in the meat to be acceptable, but the flavour certainly remained. The pancetta added further saltiness to the dish, which needed something tart to cut through the oily textures of pork and cream. A neatly trimmed skate wing is served simply and traditionally with butter and capers.

The dessert list comprised of a comforting apple and rhubarb crumble, which was served in a Le Creuset style dish the size of my hand, and warm rice pudding with a jam. It felt like posh school dinners, but left us with full bellies to parade along the river path on the way home.

The environs were unparalleled; the service attentive and relaxed; and the portions certainly generous. The a la carte is on the pricey side for a lunch time menu, but I would certainly return for the fixed price menu next time. With the Design Museum set to move soon, get in there quick...

Fish! Kitchen, Borough Market London, 03.03.12

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, especially when you leave it until eleven o'clock and have a handful of hungry relatives in tow. The March drizzle melted into insignificance as we stumbled upon Fish! Kitchen, a buzzing, glass-surrounded eaterie in the heart of Borough Market. After a couple of stolen glances through the window at plates piled with black pudding and sausages, our minds were made, and we secured our table quicker than you can whisper full-English-and-a-black-coffee.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can now tell you that the anticipation of this breakfast was the most enjoyable part of proceedings. Our first stumbling block was a thoroughly luke-warm cappuccino, which was attractively (and perhaps coffee-chillingly) decorated with the lettering F.I.S.H. A replacement was requested, along with some milk to accompany the tea, and we placed our food orders. A piping hot cappuccino arrived shortly afterwards, along with a forgotten orange juice, but still no milk. We sat a little while longer, resisting the temptation to revisit contentious family conversation topics, but slowly autodigesting. The milk finally arrived, beautifully steamed and hot. We let the error slip past us, conscious of our parched and shrivelled kidneys, but all the same muttering "hot milk, heart of England, blah blah..."

25 minutes pass and we had still not received any food. A distracted waiter informed us they were a little snowed under in the kitchen, and that our food would be with us soon. When? Dunno. Now I am not a management consultant, but common sense would tell me that Saturday at 11am would be a predictably busy time for the breakfast service. The restaurant was half full.

Eventually the food arrived, and the full breakfast plates were bulging with produce. The sausages were firm and herby, but the scrambled eggs lacked seasoning and the poached eggs were hard. There are smaller dishes for the safety conscious client, including tomatoes or mushrooms on toast, but the former were drizzled in garlic. It was a unnerving position for any breakfast tomato. The kippers were dry and arrived drenched in butter, despite a request to arrive without. We ate. Solemnly. Desperately. And then we did the very British thing of kicking up a (bit of) a fuss. A couple of dishes were refunded and we marched out, to the tune of the waiter apologising to the table next to us, and offering a refund.

Butler's Wharf Chop House, London, 05.11.11

Butler's Wharf Chop House has an enviable position on the river firmly in the shadow of Tower Bridge. A previous visit several years ago comprised of a generous steak and kidney pudding sitting outside on the terrace. Today's visit was a chillier affair in the cloudy November Saturday gloom.

Lunch service seemed to tick over with plenty of tables picking over oysters and steaks in relaxed fashion. Diners are given the choice of different menus in the bar or restaurant areas. We chose a restaurant table alongside the set menu (two courses £23, three courses £27). Service was prompt and delightfully friendly if a little lost in translation at times.

To start, the mussels were a simple but comforting affair with a straight-forward white wine and garlic sauce that boasted great depth of flavour. The portion was adequate but shell after shell appeared empty and there were no survivors at the bottom of the bowl. A starter of game terrine was good ole slab but was underseasoned and lacked real flavour.

The fish pie was excellent- hearty chunks of fish and boiled eggs with a lightly toasted potato mash topping. The whole plaice came decorated with samphire and capers ( advertised "sea vegetables") but was a little soggy and over-buttered. The ox cheek was enormous but could have benefited from substantially longer in the oven. It was rubber-textured with unsavoury gelatinous seams- all this could have been improved with the slow cooking it deserves. A few sides of vegetables would have been welcome, especially with a £27 menu.

With half an ox cheek declined, there was room for sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream. It was a mediocre experience- a little dry and lacking in stick.

Altogether we were left feeling a little deflated by the Chop House Experience, and had wished we had gone with the appealing bar menu. Our mood was alleviated by the low pendant light hanging off centre over our table. Multiple head bangs later (diner number 1) we were sent off chuckling into the afternoon drizzle.