Fig: ripe for the picking

In the provinces where I come from, a visit to a restaurant is as much an exercise in 'see and be seen' as it is a culinary adventure. You put on your best duds, you get greeted like an old pal by the staff, you table-hop to demonstrate how happening you are.

It's all rather marvellous. So when I arrived here in London, I couldn't wait to hit those buzzing temples of gastronomy I'd been reading about. Disillusionment rapidly kicked in: these places couldn't care less unless you had the wallet of a Kashoggi; staff turnover was so frequent that no one ever knew your name. I didn't feel so much cherished as processed.

That was when I discovered the joys of the neighbourhood joint. Glamorous they're not, but at least you get something resembling a welcome. (I'm convinced that the eccentric boss of my local, widely renowned Chinese only pretends to recognise me as a regular, but I still appreciate his efforts.)

Katie Arnold, one of the owners of Islington's Fig, believes that small and caring is the way to go. She and co-owner and chef Annie O'Carroll have put their hearts and souls into this tiny spot and it shows.

Both partners have a history in the business - Katie front of house, Annie cooking for luminaries such as Nobu and the Sugar Club - and Fig is the culmination of an ambition to own their own place, 'not to make loads of money,' says Katie, 'just to feed people well and enjoy our lives.'

So they're both on duty in their neutrally decorated little room, every single shift. There's no door to the kitchen, so you can watch the frantic activity. And it was particularly bustling on the Sunday lunchtime we visited: every table was occupied by appreciative North London types.

The menu changes daily: essential if you want to build up repeat trade. You can find the likes of grilled scallop, black pudding and chorizo with Seville orange dressing; or nettle tortelli with Portobello mushrooms and green beans; or braised duck leg with bashed neeps and garlicky spring greens. Go on a Sunday, as we did, and you get a roast: a mammoth, just-like-mum-served portion of meat heaving with roast vegetables, meat jus, Yorkshires, the works.

We went for the more intriguing numbers: first up, a gorgeously soupy stew of green split peas, pungent strips of ham hock, courgettes, leeks and chunks of boiled potato that had absorbed all the savoury flavours.

This was full-on: big, rustic, very good. A whole side of mackerel as a starter had been smoked with tea, making it silky and fragrant, without any of that rankish quality mackerel can have. It came with crunchy green beans, endive and the punch of a sparky rhubarb relish.

For some reason, I had a vegetarian moment. 'You'll regret it,' my date muttered darkly, and I did. The hummock of open-cap mushrooms - a 'goulash' - with sour cream and horseradish on a dense almond croustade ('like mushroom cheesecake,' said the date) was just too brown and worthy to hold my attention.