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Starters came in at an average of £6, the best of which was a bright pink, cream-smooth chicken liver pâté that was served in a terrifyingly big portion – really terrifying, like a comedy ice-cream portion served up by a lecherous Italian ice-cream vendor to a fat girl from Rotherham. My sister, who is not adventurous, had a tomato salad which was as it would be in a cheap Parisian joint at this time of year: a lot of not very interesting tomatoes livened up with a slather of strong onion dressing – decent nostalgia grub from the hard years of yore.

My restaurateur pal, Henry, and I both had a pig’s trotter salad (£6.50) that was jollily described on the menu as “boneless – almost!” As it turned out, his was and mine wasn’t. Not a problem for me, it’s just that I was spitting large chunks of pig toe out on to a table which didn’t really have room for them. The trotter dish was a lot of frisee, very mustardy vinaigrette, nice boiled egg and a rather small, fried trotter patty – taking me back, once more, to the 30F menus of mid-Eighties school trips to Rouen and Le Havre. Pumpkin risotto (£6) was well done, with a nice blob of crème fraîche, and I see from the bill that there was a beetroot salad, but I don’t remember it – does one ever?

I had braised tripe with chorizo and butter beans (£9.50), to which the ladies all went “poo!”, but which I liked a lot.

Not enough to finish my plate, though. It was very, very dense, dark brown and salty, as if from a weeks-old, occasionally topped-up pot (no bad thing), and after a while, even loosening it up with glugs of a nice, light, £31 Savigny-lès-Beaunes, I rather lost the stomach for the fight. The fish cakes (£9.50) were two large fellows which seemed to have been hauled together from big chunks of fish and potato only moments before (no horrid mashing) and then magically deep-fried into a golden puck and plonked on a firm puddle of gribiche.

Ham-hock hash with a fried egg on (£9.75) was just a big, gorgeous, smashed-up fried breakfast, and there’s nowt wrong with that.

There’s a deliciously French disregard for green veg, and then the Eton mess and tiramisu were a fiver a pop. It’s all just so bonkers and unself-conscious and original that it makes perfect sense. But for the wine, we’d have been out of there for £18 a head, but they don’t add service, so for God’s sake tip generously. You can be fairly sure they won’t be pooling the loot to pay for a staff outing to Westfield.

The Giaconda Dining Room

9 Denmark Street, London WC2 (020-7240 3334)

Cooking: 6

Smiliness: 9

Depression-busting: 9

Score: 8

Price: as above

I’m supposed to put a couple of little extra reviews here. I’ve never known quite why. Just because the last guy used to, I guess. Maybe he had a better expenses deal than me. But I don’t really go anywhere else. So here’s a joke told to me by a very dear friend called Melissa, who claims she made it up: Why did the French chef commit suicide? Because he’d lost his huile d’olive.

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