Kilburn moves on up

They say that smoking physically harms other people's health and enjoyment of life and that's not a lie. I'm resigned to the ominously steady moves the government are making towards banning smoking in restaurants and bars. But, in a restaurant with a good extraction unit, you don't notice the fag in your own hand, let alone your neighbour's. If it really is for health purposes, then what about people who drive gasguzzling Chelsea tractors and one mile to the gallon hip-hop Hummers? They add to the never-ending, life-endangering quest for oil. Getting all moral about smoking is hypocritical.

I read an Egyptian saying the other day: 'Tobacco without coffee is like a sultan without furs'. Smoking is a pleasurable ritual for some bon viveurs. Eddie Hart at the modern Spanish, Fino, would be very unhappy if smoking were forcibly banned in their well-ventilated restaurant where they can count on one hand the number of complaints they've had from nonsmokers in 18 months. 'Aside from the issues of civil liberties, a smoking ban will disrupt the flow of a meal with people running outside all the time.' Part of the Spanish way of finishing off a meal - 'Cafe, copa y puro' (coffee, liqueur and a cigar) - is letting that whole thing happen.

In some ways, the smoking culture is far more pleasant than the boozing one - drunken argument anybody? I was with two friends at the North London Tavern for an early dinner on Saturday night, and, by

8.30pm the Jackson 5's 'ABC' was playing very loudly in the bar across from the restaurant. An otherwise nice meal was being rudely interrupted. Would a tableful of chain-smokers next to us have been worse?

The place has very high ceilings and the tables were well-spaced, so somehow I doubt it.

This is a huge, traditional pub, with London Pride on tap, that has spruced itself in such a way as to have edge and cred with a young crowd. There's lots of dark red and black on the walls, sofas and one of our waiters was a proper 'jeans round

his arse, trucker cap and ironic old T-shirt' sort. People were meeting here dressed up for a full-on night out. Not a spot for a quiet pint. Its sister pub, the Metropolitan, is also a haunt of the wilder and more down-to-earth inhabitants of W11.

The food is mediocre to good. A globe artichoke stuffed with duxelles, a mixture of mushrooms, onions, shallots, herbs, needed more seasoning. The mushroom mix ended up being a bit slimy: being topped with a poached egg, nice and runny, and not enough hollandaise didn't add much. I couldn't see what each part gave to the other. Jane had the fried goat's cheese with hazelnuts and a salad. She liked it. Henry had a smoked haddock and Welsh Rarebit tart which was too heavy with the cheese on top, but good underneath.

We wondered how an older couple were getting on with the music, but they were on their mains when we arrived and were still having a lovely time when we left. A heavy curtain between the main bar and the dining room would have muffled the offending levels of noise. Large tables of happy late twenty/early thirtysomethings weren't complaining, though.

I took the mussels with coriander, chilli and ginger coconut cream. The mussels were fresh, and the sauce was overly intense and sadly lacking, certainly not enough to slurp off the shells. Jane had the wild mushroom fricassee with a soft polenta, which she thought was 'A bit of an oily mess,' but she enjoyed it enough to eat it and Jane generally doesn't eat what she doesn't like. Henry had cooked cod, roasted in pancetta with a cockle and cider sauce that worked well.

The waitress asked if everything was OK and I said, truthfully, 'Yes, it's OK.' As in just OK. Henry bore down on me for being overcritical because he was born and bred in Kilburn and he wanted me to impose some relativity on my judgements. 'Thing is, just five years ago there was nowhere as switched-on as this...' he trailed off. 'I can't help but feel overawed."