A warm retreat

I detest the idea of having to book tables at pubs days in advance. Life shouldn't work like that. Although neither should it work along the Hope And Anchor lines of turn up and maybe you will get a table.

Booking is for extremely good food and obsequious service, and possibly a kiss at your front door afterwards. Imagine Ye Olde Coaching Inn having a strict booking system - Falstaff and his mates can't eat because they didn't plan to do it two days ago.

Eating out for a certain type of Londoner is not a treat, it is an essential part of their lifestyle. Single people who work from home have to go out for dinner in the way office gonks have to kick off their shoes and watch the soaps. For me, it's about being anywhere but the same four walls I stare at day in, day out.

All this eating out costs a lot, so we spend our nights in affordable venues - gastropubs, shabby chic ethnic places, organic cafes, quirky greasy spoons, your friend's place where the drinks are free, anywhere you can eat for under £20 without feeling depressed or queasy.

The incomparibly glamorous Derek would like to eat at Nobu more, but by the constant application of what he calls 'Modern Glamour Principles', he gets the most out of what he can afford. A sort of less-is-more, and only pay for what you must. 'It's buying 10 pairs of socks for a fiver down the market,' he says, with a flash of his £800 Richard James alligator shoes, 'and swapping six wool jumpers for a single cashmere one.' I took Derek to the Duchess Of Kent, a normal pub with a nasty carpet on a quiet stretch of Liverpool Road.

We walked in to roars and air-punching - England v Portugal. 'I love the way they wear their matching shorts and T-shirts,' said Derek, as we moved away from the bar, picking up a half each of Regatta and Landlord, to the back of the pub, where we settled in armchairs by the fire - particularly inviting on a wet June night. We commented on how it did not look like a place that could do more than scampi in a basket, and were proved wrong.

Bruschetta came with a milky, mildly sour-tasting (and rightly so) melted mozzarella, olives, tart baby onions and heavy branch of baby vine tomatoes, which were so beautifully roasted to a sticky toffee-sweetness that even the stalks were a treat to crunch, like herby, well-cooked bones.

Derek's Parma ham with melon, figs and strawberries, dressed in a touch of balsamic and olive oil, got the modern glamour OK. We had ordered a bottle of wine with dinner. A friend joined us for our main course so we ordered another. 'Let's have clean glasses,' said Derek, 'they cost nothing and don't make you fat.'

The new arrival had the tuna carpaccio, which came from a fatty part of a nice bit of fish and was notably tender. There was a heated debate over whether the steak was tough or not. It was a tad tough, but rib-eye is a flavourful steak, and for this you expect a bit of bite - meat is rarely high on tenderness and taste. It let out a pool of blood, herby butter and juice, which gave the crispy jackets-on chips something to soak up.

The other main course was quail, which never tastes of much to me, but a sweet-potato dish with cumin gave a bit of assistance there. The bird was moist and had some noticeable flavour, but the skin was white and pallid, which is a criminal waste of crisped-up fat opportunities. Overall, a good dish, though.