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It’s true that you don’t really need to faff about with a corn to make it delicious. But this multi-plate was by no means superfluous. It was a wholly positive expression of the potential of the great golden phallus, and I think it bespoke great talent. It was also clearly the work of a female chef (Maria Elia) determined to show that simply being long and hard counts for very little in the end.

The restaurant, as its name suggests, is attached to an art gallery. But I won’t go into the details of the gallery itself, because they wouldn’t let me see it. I had called earlier to book a table for 8.30pm and they had said that was a good time because they had a new exhibition on and it was late opening till 9pm. Which I assumed, silly me, meant that it would be open until 9pm.

We got to Whitechapel a bit late, as one can sometimes do, and it was 8.45pm by the time we had gone into the restaurant, sat down, and asked if they minded if we nipped in and had a look at the exhibition before we ordered.

“No worries,” said the waiter. “We’re not going anywhere, and it’s well worth a look.”

On the ground floor was a video installation (or possibly just a film) which the woman on the door told us wasn’t worth going into if we only had ten minutes, and that we should go up to the main exhibition. As we followed her directions up the stairs, however, we found our path blocked by two grim-faced employees coming the other way.

“Gallery’s closed!” barked one of them with a glee that suggested she would only be happy when the last painting in London was on fire.

“But it’s only quarter to nine,” I said. “I came specially. Can’t I go in and have a quick look?”

“No,” said the other woman. “You’ll have to go and see the film installation instead.”

“But she said there was no point.”

“Well, there you are then,” said the first woman, as excited by her own logic as the March Hare offering wine to Alice when there wasn’t any. And so we shuffled forlornly back down to the restaurant.

It’s small and cosy for such a modern space and very nicely lit – Esther, my domestic lighting czar, was quite beside herself with the mid-level wall light and candle combo. The staff are very kind and the menu is gloriously brief.

I had appetised myself, before my corn thing, with the char-grilled quail, a titchy portion but beautifully realised: two quarters of juicy bird, wedged on puréed broad bean plinths at either end of a rectangular plate like an estranged aristocratic couple at breakfast. Esther had some shavings of a truffled pecorino with assorted leaves on “porcini lavosh” – which is an unleavened mushroom bread that sounds like it’s named after some Yiddish-Italian diva from the golden age of vaudeville, but probably isn’t. And then half a roasted guinea fowl with braised lettuce, peas and pancetta.

There was a side dish of heritage carrots that were a bit scary: all multicoloured and leaves-on and covered in grit, but I guess on the plus side that’s roughage, and will go through you like a plunger. For pudding, we had the “Textures of plum”, which was another little symphony on a single ingredient (plum curd tart, plum brûlée, etc) and quite the highlight of the meal.

So, hated the gallery, loved the restaurant. The food’s good, the staff are pleasant, and from outside on the rushing night-time pavement it has that gorgeous amber glow of hospitality and cosiness that makes you glad autumn has come at last.

Whitechapel Gallery Dining Room

Whitechapel High St, London E1 (020-7522 7896)

Cooking: 7

Service: 8

Gallery: 0

Score: 5 (apologies to the chef for this measly score – you’ll have to blame Frau Sturmbannobergruppenführer and her jobsworth colleague)

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