Local eats: The Beachcomber

I have had three good oyster moments and one bad in recent weeks. First, there was the pillow-plump, regrettably single, West Mersea that kicks off the eight-course tasting menu at Fifteen. Maldon salt is like steroids to molluscs, so it had a mineral-rich, souffléd meatiness, making it good and chewy.

The second was at Plateau. Tim Tolley - ex of Vong - serves Loch Fyne rocks three ways: natural, en gelee, meaning in this case smothered in an intense, salty cucumber jelly, and under a toasty blanket of rich champagne sabayon. Very sexy.

Plateau is smart, and it has an ego-boosting Wall Street-style urban view. If you find yourself Canary Wharf way, then six oysters and a glass of bubbles should come in at under £25 and offer a sexy way to see in the evening.

Then I sucked off a hangover with a disgusting number of spanking fresh rock, both native and fin de claire, at The Cow.

I heartily approve of oysters in pubs - nutritionally they have more to offer a depleted body and mind than a mineral supplement or pork scratchings, and they turn a grubby hangover into something classy.

Now we come to the bad. It's the restaurant critic cliche, getting lost, so I won't go on. Suffice to say I should have been reviewing Latitude in Forest Gate but after a two-hour tour of South-East London, I wound up in Greenwich. To the car load of irate siblings I said, 'Right, we review the first place we see.'

Welcome to the Beachcomber Seafood Restaurant, a Turkish-run, slightly seedy joint on Greenwich Church Street. Certain of my friends would not step into a place like this, with featherlight cutlery, an abundance of tat on the walls and the smell of old lino. However, I know the Turks have a way with fish, and I have eaten royally in far nastier places than this on the Bosphorus.

The menu was huge, frayed, laminated and truly old school with lots of en mornay, grapefruit segments, prawn cocktail, hot avocado and coquille St Jacques. William chose the latter: it was a chunky, solid version of the dish, with mashed potato instead of breadcrumbs and a not very interesting creamy coloured sauce. 'Definite references to a Beefeater in presentation and depth of flavour,' said Will.

Amy had fish soup: 'A flavourless, potato-thickened, tomatoey fish stock with mussels, needs lots of salt.' Ben's moules meuniere were actually moules mariniere, cooked in white wine and with some cream slung in for luck. The verdict? 'Not bad, too much cream though.' My asparagus and hot avocado did what it said on the box, grilled with lots of butter. Not sure what heat lends to an avocado, aside from slimy, swamp-thing attitude.

Amy's turbot was as plain as it gets, a succulent and full-flavoured piece of fish, steamed. OK in itself, but that expanse of flat, grey skin had released some of its oils and had a distressing texture. The thin slices of pallid carrot, mushroom and potato that came with it made us glad to have never experienced the Fifties. Ben's sea bass was proper meuniere this time.