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Which was just as well, because what we fell into was the funnest, sexiest eating space in all of Gordon’s restaurants. And don’t tell me that’s not saying much, because this was gorgeous: a long, curving “pass” dividing a big open kitchen from a tart’s boudoir of red satin wallpaper and loungey red sofas around tables. Fin-de-siècle brothel (top hats, parasols…) meets the River Café, and rocks.

My two chef buddies felt sorry for the boys in the kitchen because “they’re on show the whole time and can’t arse about”. But sod that, they’re here to cook, and did so beautifully. It’s bistro stuff at bistro prices with Angela Hartnett quality control, and that means damn, damn fine eating.

Perfectly done middle-brow dishes included: a salad of deep-fried lamb’s tongue and mache lettuce; fried duck’s egg with field mushrooms, Jerusalem artichoke and parmesan; game mosaic with sourdough; oven-baked halibut with chorizo and white beans; red snapper with confit lemon and couscous; Casterbridge rib-eye (last seen at Maze Grill) with gratinated bone marrow; other stuff…

Me, personally, I had the braised neck of lamb with garlic potato purée and long shafts of carrot and parsnip. So good. Such distinct autumnal flavours and colours, only straightforward but done without putting the tiniest foot wrong.

My chefs did wonder if the risotto wasn’t a bit underdone, and then ponced on about its being so hard to get spot on, and how it’s not really a restaurant dish, until the dollies and I began to yawn, scarfed a couple of treacle sponges that were, said the girls, like, totally OMFG, and headed back up to the bar to tuck into a bottle of Ardbeg.

Around 1am, my girlfriend and I shoved our pals out of the door and scuttled upstairs to one of the bedrooms, just because Gordon has never done rooms before and he’s got a handful here, and I thought we should check them out.

Ours was charming, bonsai-Regency with underfloor heating in the bathroom, telly (but, disappointingly, no porn – Gordon’s such an old prude), slightly rickety four-poster, unbelievable 400 thread-count cotton, zzzz…

In the morning: a ripping breakfast of sausage, egg, bacon, black pudding and faultless espresso that perfectly patrolled the rustic-poncey border territory that a good fry-up must these days; the paying of a whopping bill (to be fair, they threw in the bed for good behaviour); and off for a turn round the zoo (five minutes’ walk away) to throw rocks at the pandas.

Except that there aren’t any pandas any more. Or elephants. Or rhinos. We didn’t see a herd of anything really massive until a coach-load of schoolchildren from Plymouth arrived. They were so porky and numerous one felt they’d be best viewed from above, by hot-air balloon, swarming across the Transvaal towards a kebab shop.

Averting my gaze from the greasy hordes, I looked up at the pretty, gabled roof of the old birdhouse and saw, on a plaque, that it was built in 1869. And, oh, how I dreamt myself in the zoo 100-odd years ago, promenading among the silhouettes of top-hatted gentlemen and ladies with parasols…

York & Albany

127-129 Parkway, London NW1

(020-7388 3344)

Cooking: 8

General thing: 9

Prawns: 10

Score: 9

Price: As I said, I did less than £40 on lunch and you-don’t-want-to-know-what on supper. But I could probably have got us out for £60 a head if I were a different sort of person.

Wagamama (branches all over)

I went last night and it was properly stinking – what’s happened to your gyoza? – come on, pull your fingers out, people. There’s a recession on here and cheapo joints like you are going to have to feed people with high expectations but reduced resources.

Dim T (branches all over)

I wrote recently that this chain had gone to seed years ago, but I went for lunch just now and the gyoza were just plain gorgeous.

mailto:feedme2@thetimes.co.uk

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