The Baring, London

If your first question wasn't, where on earth is The Baring?, I'd be surprised. The answer, on Baring Street,  won't help you much either. It brought to mind Barings Bank, the institution brought to its knees by rogue trader Nick Leeson. My guess was therefore somewhere around the City of London.

Nope. You take the tube to The Angel, Islington, one of six underground stations to be named after a pub. (A fiver says you can't name the others* without cheating.) You then meander a bit and find Baring Street, just off the Regents Park Canal. You walk its length, but still can't find it. But take a funny turn and you're there. My oh my, is it worth the journey!

Those who follow such things will know that it sits at number 17 in some sort of list of gastropubs. The better informed will simply have consulted our lunch companion the Former Brewing Giant. That was probably what inspired my (non binding and in a spirit of jest only) bet above. My first task in the two years since we last met was to square my gambling debt, the result of two unwise wagers involving Manchester United and Brentford FC.

The tenner having been handed over, we settled to the business of the day and considered the surroundings. It's a fairly plain rectangle of a place, definitely a restaurant rather than a pub. Chef, I believe, is Rob Tecwyn. His CV is full of places I've heard of but haven't visited. He has created a beautifully structured one page menu, as elegantly put together as the place itself. It's presided over this afternoon by the lovely Isabella from Australia's Gold Coast. She came to London and liked it: she came to work at The Baring and liked it. Oz's loss is London's gain.

Short though the menu be, there is much to tempt. It is worth noting that bread is only £3. We were charged nine in a place in Soho which will be reviewed soon. Gordal olives are £4. I've seen them for six or seven elsewhere. While we're not in the market for bargain food, early signs that you're not in a ripoff joint are reassuring.

Smoked trout with curried potato salad, green apple and dill is a dish that sings spring. It was as advertised, despite the London weather not yet hitting its customary May warmth. One may find chicken liver parfait on many a menu. Few examples, however, are anything near as good as this. Cherry ketchup is an unusual accompaniment. Not, it must be said, as unusual as quail shish. A good size (for a quail) breast and leg arrived on a skewer, marinaded and grilled, served on a bed of garlic yoghurt with pickled red onions on the side. There was a vivid red oil made with pul biber chilli which provided a satisfying kick. I had to look this one up. We probably know it better as Aleppo pepper. It comes in at between 10,000 and 20,000 on the Scoville scale.

The Middle Eastern thread continued with the rose harissa and labneh which accompanied the lamb rump and roasted Roscoff onion. The French thread continued with the Anjou rabbit (in the form of a stuffed saddle). At the height of the English season, choosing Loire valley asparagus seemed a little odd, but darn fine it was. Looking at the bill I see that L chose a second starter. As it's unhelpfully listed on the bill as plat du jour I can't enlighten you further. We think that sugar snap peas may have been involved, and that it was very good too.

It's a meal which you didn't want to come to an end. That's the excuse for ordering a plate of Lincolnshire Poacher with membrillo (quince paste) and sourdough crackers. The basic house red was a rather good Italian number. Perhaps unwisely, another bottle was summoned. Even more unwisely, a stop was made at a hostelry en route to the FBG's station. It was near the Barbican. We assumed that the assembled company in evening dress were musicians tuning up pre performance. I enquired of one what instrument he played, None, came the reply. We're tunnelers (as in the Crossrail Link). This was their annual dinner.

It was that sort of day -  but I bet they weren't as well fed as we were.

*Elephant & Castle; Royal Oak; Swiss Cottage; Manor House; Maida Vale