Providence?

What ham, egg & chips should look like

We should have seen the warning signs: the car park was deserted and inside wasn't much better: I've seen more life on an old army blanket. They'd still got their Christmas decorations up for god's sake. But we toughed it out, we stayed.

We shouldn't have been there in the first place; if only our usual midweek pub grub venue of choice hadn't been stacked out with flat landers knee deep at the bar with not a table to be had. So we'd got back in the old smoker and headed east. To what was, back in the day, both a fine hostelry and eating house.

We each went for a pint of their local grog, which despite one being chilled and one slightly above room temperature (amazingly both from the same hand pull) was at least drinkable. So far, so average.

'Ham, egg and chips' I said, noticing it on the specials board. Another warning sign ignored - what makes ham, egg and chips, a pub staple, special? Jenny too plumped for this non-special special.

The place was so quiet we heard not only the sound of tumbleweed blowing through the place, but also the chef, who only minutes earlier had pulled our pints, programming what sounded like a bank of microwave ovens in the kitchen next door. A cacophony of electronic pings was followed seconds later by two plates of warm ham (not bacon, not gammon, but heated ham), solidified eggs, peas and carrots. They were subsequently joined by a joint bowl of soggy (yet burnt at the same time) chips.

We made (hushed) polite small talk in that way only the English can. 'How can they fuck ham, egg and chips up so spectacularly?' I said to Jenny. 'What sort of meat is this exactly?' she whispered back.

We just couldn't run for those hills fast enough.

Bonhomie: 2
Cooking: 1
Value: 2

Score: 1.67

Donnelly's

They say that Giles Coren has been trying for weeks to get a table at Donnelly's. If the buzz has reached Kentish Town, then Londoner Steve Donnelly is obviously doing something right. Situated in the fashionable end of First Avenue, Donnelly and his head chef Rachel Macaleese are turning heads with their delightfully eclectic dishes whilst, very politely, sticking two fingers up at the food police. They don't give a flying f*ndue about gossip columns, Michelin stars and restaurant critics who get nosebleeds if they venture further than the North Circular.

When the GLW and I went along last week we were greeted by Steve in his typical gravelly tones; though he fled the capital ten years ago, his north London vowels are still much in evidence: 'Evening. Parky out there?' Aperitifs are served in the Railway Lounge where a log burner brings your body temperature back into double figures, in stark contrast to the driving snow that's piling up outside.

The gin is export and it's hitting the spot. We are told that the Culture Clash menu is on tonight; for those of you not in the know, The CC menu is akin to The Holy Grail; many have heard about it, few have tasted it. I'm getting excited.

We go through to the dining area. Taking the table nearest the window, I pick my runners and riders. I decide to start with the Naum Bunchjop and for mains I stick a pin in the Honey Roast Wild Boar Sausages with Boston Baked Beans. When the Cambodian starter arrives I can't believe it; to call it a noodle soup is like saying that Picasso could paint a bit. Steve later tells me that Paul Simenon's mother gave him the recipe - Steve shared a Ladbroke Grove squat with The Clash's bass player in the mid 70s. By the time my bangers come my retinas have just about adjusted to the dimly lit surroundings - candle power is still the light of choice in this classy postcode; the wax he collects from them fuel the log burner and make rather fetching table decorations. Strong liquor is never more than 30 seconds from your glass and, before we leave, Steve lets us sit in on his Whisky Focus Group - a meeting of like minded coves who savour Single Malts from the Highlands and Islands; several of which taste like hospital corridors. Cost? He turned us out into the snow sometime after midnight before we had chance to square up. If he likes you, then you'll know to leave your wallet at home.

Sausages: 10
Lighting: 4
Single Malts: 9

Rating: 7.67

Reservations: Steve doesn't give out his 'phone number and very rarely checks his email - try and catch him in The Sun Inn. Tell him I sent you.

On the way out, as as he was filling my pockets with crabsticks, Steve told me he'd helped Joe Strummer write Train In Vain; he'd had a few by this point.