A tip-top pit stop

The perceived wisdom is that the Shoreditch/Hoxton axis is the trendiest place in the known universe. And this wisdom often extrapolates to embrace each restaurant/bar/gallery/sex shop that opens its doors in the area. I guess that means the Rivington Grill Bar Deli, as newest arrival, must represent the dernier cri of urban cool. Which is interesting, as it's the most unfashionable place I've been to in a long time - and I mean that in a good way.

I took as my date to the restaurant (the 'Grill' part of its title) a Surreydwellerdismissive of inner-city loft behaviour, a chap who hyperventilates in the absence of trees. His anxiety as we drove through the grimy City fringes evaporated on entering the Rivington. It's that kind of place: deceptively simply decorated in neutral whites and browns, just bustling enough to be welcoming.

It almost entirely lacks any alarmingly modernist design feature (apart from a neon squiggle which, when viewed in the adjoining mirrored wall, reveals the message: 'f**king beautiful').

It's the people and their noise levels that give the Shoreditch game away. Diners have pink hair or those expensively butchered locks that look like an accident with pinking shears (the women) or no hair (the men). Given the clientele and the location, you could take a punt at what the menu might offer: a fuss of fusion, bristling with arcana - you know the sort of thing, jiggery-pokery with ponzu and shimiji mushrooms.

So here's a surprise. It is, in fact, so heartily English that it brings to mind a lorry drivers' motorway pit stop. There are hamburgers, fish fingers and mushy peas - all with chips. There are Barnsley lamb chops with bubble and squeak, bangers and mash with onion gravy, rice pudding with jam, steamed chocolate pudding. You can trade up a gear, but it's to the likes of braised beef in Guinness with mashed neeps or devilled lamb's kidneys on toast. On a freezing night, it reads like rib-sticking ambrosia.

Most of what we ate was good, much of it excellent. A salad of ham hock with lentils contained an intriguing mix of herbs and leaves (including, of course, the inevitable bloody rocket); the lentils added ballast and bite and the ham was pungent, yielding and meaty, just as it should be. I'd have liked more of it, though. The other starter, a fried duck egg with baby leeks and capers, was terrific: the rich emollience of the yolk given a jazzupby the salty bullets; the leeks properly tender.

Smoked haddock with poached egg must be one of my favourite combinations; here it was gorgeously, stickily accessorised by colcannon (potato with cabbage) and a punchy mustard sauce. Great stuff: the kind of food you want to spoon-feed into yourself like a greedy baby. A mixed grill packed in kidney, a coarse, densely meaty sausage, lamb chops and long strips of lamb fillet arranged around a pleasingly stodgy cake of onion and mashed potato. Good quality meat, expertly charred as this was, is an oldfashioned treat. My more-in-hopethan-expectation request for brown sauce was met without the raising of an eyebrow.

Of course, the apparent simplicity of the menu is actually studied artlessness. It's far from being as basic as it appears: there's both skill in the cooking and real effort and knowledge in the sourcing of ingredients. Even the wine list and bartending reflect this: vodka martinis, for instance, were flawless, generous and made with hipster favourite Grey Goose.

Rivington Grill may be truck-stop in ethic - prices are even reasonable at an average £6 for starters and £10 for main courses - but it's resolutely Central London in execution. And, as the name suggests, there's a separate deli next door ( closed in the evenings). I wonder if it sells HP?

Rivington Grill Bar
Rivington Street, London, EC2A 3DZ