5 stars Bacchanalia 4 stars Back a winner 3 stars Back to basics 2 stars Back in the box 1 star Back in the USSR

This is the time of year when everybody wants a recommendation for their Christmas outing. The rural neighbours of old aunts call with a breezy irritation because they’re halfway down a ho-ho-ho to-do list that’s longer than a Chinese executioner’s organ-donor card.

“Look,” they say, “what I need is a restaurant in London where we can have a seasonal lunch. That’ll be me and Toby, Samantha and the fiancé, if he can be bothered, and Toby’s great-aunt. Sadly, Ralphy won’t be there — still on his gap.

“So, near Paddington, or Selfridges. And quiet — Toby’s deaf as a post on the sinister side and I don’t think Aunt Ag has heard anything since the all clear. Not too expensive, either. I know that’s all relative, but frankly, London prices are a fearful joke, in very poor taste, if I might be allowed a pun.

“Personally, I’d happily do the whole thing at the Fox up the road and let Maureen and Michael do their stroganoff. But London it’s got to be, because of poor Simon the fiancé. I don’t know what she sees in him ... ‘Stay out of it,’ Toby says. ‘Just be grateful you don’t have to see to his needs’, which, of course, is a blessing. But one doesn’t like to think of one’s daughter ... so one doesn’t. When I say seasonal, I mean English seasonal. I don’t want Bengali, Basuto, Bajan, Burmese or whatever disgusting species of human-rights-refugee offal you’re proselytising this week. I know it’s your job, but honestly. And no paper hats or crackers and definitely no muzak carols. I think that’s about it. Ah, no Polish waiters. I know they’re all the rage, but Aunt Ag had Popski’s privates billeted on her. Lost a nipple. So where shall I go?”

And then there was the man at the bus stop: “It’s you, ain’t it? That’s a stroke. Look, got a bit of a work do. Dispatch and maintenance boys. There’ll be about 20. Grub doesn’t matter much. Hot and plentiful and doesn’t hurt coming up. Somewhere that’ll do a deal on the booze, with waitresses that are up for some fun. And laminated walls.” Try Antony Worrall Thompson’s place in Barnes, I said. Tell him I sent you.

Of course, this is the worst time of year to eat out. The spirit of conviviality, Christian joy and generosity is a thin veneer of tinsel that covers a suppurating stew of resentment and loathing. Cast a glance over your fellow diners at lunch. It’s mostly once-a-year, joyless obligations being hastily swallowed. “No pudding, just the bill. Do you want coffee?”

Restaurateurs hate it, too. They’re full, but it’s barely worth the effort, with special offers, group discounts and the behaviour. Staff are abused and overworked and want to go home to Gdansk or Dunedin. And kitchens hate it because nobody in the history of gastronomy has ever wanted to cook a turkey twice. Actually, I’ve never met anybody who wanted to eat one twice. If you possibly can this month, you should stay home and drink.

But if you insist on going out, you might like to try Bacchus, in Hoxton. The Blonde and I went with Roger and Ellie Guy, who, in the true spirit of the season, had bid a saintly sum for desperate children — or, rather, on behalf of desperate children — to go on a restaurant review with me. Hoxton is fashionable and swanky because it’s ugly, miserable and poor. It is the unlucky recipient of the most insouciantly patronising snobbery, the artistic and intellectual belief that gritty, unhappy, misshapen, thick, impoverished places are intrinsically more real and worthwhile than sophisticated, beautiful, charming, rich ones.

Bacchus is a made-over pub. It still has that unmistakably pubby shape that makes it feel like a theatre set without a performance. There are bare tables with bent-ply chairs of such ergonomically sadistic and ferocious discomfort that they must be incredibly important and valuable. The table settings are of a spartan utilitarianism. And if you’d asked me what sort of food we were about to get, I’d have said vegan stew or budget Thai.

Then the menu came. And it was as complete a surprise as I’ve had while sitting down. Scallops, green-apple air, cauliflower, pine nuts. Sweet-potato velouté, spiced onion cake, greek yoghurt foam, tarragon lemon tuile. Pork-jowl langoustine, leek, nashi pear. Get you! Sophisticated, elegant and delicate. The arty, Hoxton word would be “poncey”.

Between us, we ate pretty much everything on the menu. Happily, Roger and Ellie know an enormous amount about food and eat out in far more restaurants than I do. Collectively, we were particularly taken by the warm cod, sofrito tradicional, espuma de bacalao and honey; the lamb loin, vanilla parsnips, fig brûlée and cacao oil; and the cinnamon-rubbed pork, leeks, mangosteen, wasabi, wild rocket and salty caramel. Given that there was a bit too much spume, air and foam for my liking, the food was remarkably inventive and cleverly thought out. The flavours were at worst interesting and at best inspired.

Most of it was cooked sous vide, which is essentially boil in the bag, but boiled in a snakeskin Kelly bag rather than the colostomy you get from Tesco. This means that individual flavours are retained in a spectral brilliance, and the texture of things — particularly fish and soft meat — is winsome. It was all arranged with the elegant whimsy of a Japanese parrot’s funeral.

The only way really to describe this food is “gay”. Gayissimus. Gayomorphic. Spumingly, frothingly queer. It was proudly, poncily, deliciously, lispingly effete. It was Fotherington-Thomas reads Manley Hopkins. It was a Tom of Finland electric toothbrush. It was the Blues and Royals up the Rambert ballet. And finding it in Hoxton was like finding Tom Ford in Millets. Consequently, the place was nakedly empty, except for us and a table of scowly, sneery local conceptual-video poets, who looked like they’d been tricked into doing Doris Day karaoke.

The prices are an astonishing £24 for two courses or £28 for three, which easily makes it the best value for this quality of cuisine in London. So, apart from the room, the furniture, the location and the locals, we couldn’t have loved it more. Though I could have done without the dolcelatte cheesy ice cream. A little too graphic for my pale pink screech.

Bacchus

177 Hoxton Street, N1; 020 7613 0477
Lunch; Tue-Fri, noon-3pm. Dinner; Tue-Sat, 6pm-11pm

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