Olde inn on the river

Being greeted by Jean Christophe Novelli, the distinguished French chef currently in residence at Brocket Hall, is akin to being greeted by a poorly trained springer spaniel.

I met him at the Dolce Vita Ball during Grand Prix weekend in Monaco. I knew no one and felt fiscally outclassed, to say the least. So, recognising Novelli, I went over to introduce myself to a fellow restaurant type. He fell on me with a face-licking so ebullient, it was as if I had smeared my face in Valrhona chocolate. Maybe it was the dress I had borrowed, or maybe he greets all female restaurant critics the same way.

He told me that only sex can feed the five senses the way that food does. I've heard this before, but having it explained to me in Novelli's thickly accented English was, frankly, thrilling for an old bird. I hear whispers that he may be returning to London. Can't wait.

Back on planet gastropub, I took Antonia to the Grapes in Westferry for a strictly fish lunch. I kicked off with a selection of smoked fish. The salmon and roes were richly and distinctively flavoured, though some toast on the side for the roes might have helped their peculiar bitterness.

The eel and the trout had been hot-smoked so mildly that they could have passed for poached. Which isn't a bad thing, just that cold-smoked eel with its flavourful, oily succulence is one of my favourite things. Antonia's tiddly whitebait, one of her favourite things, got an eight out of 10. I thought they were too chewy, preferring them crisp then soft to the bite, like fishy chips. She said that whitebait are the Pringles of fish - once you've popped you can't stop - so she was grateful that the portion was not too big.

Antonia took the scallops, fat, tasty, juicy buggers they were, wrapped in bacon as a main. This dish exemplified what is right, and what, I thought, is wrong, with the Grapes.

The scallops were great quality, and cooked just so, but the thick, tough back bacon felt a bit old-fashioned, much better a bit of crispy, and more flavoursome, streaky. Everything is good here, but it's just a wee bit old-fashioned, which is not to suggest you want everything finished with foam, truffle oil and exotic coulis, but just a tweak of modernisation to bring out the best in old favourites.

My salmon - old-fashioned sized portions, the size of a slipper - was perfect, slipped apart and had that essential golden crisp edge to it. The Oriental sauce made simply from olive oil, soy sauce, sherry, ginger and scallions, was subtle enough to let the salmon just be its fine self.

The side orders included a dense, sticky mashed potato with loads of garlic and peas smashed up in it which, pushed up on the fork with a bit of fish, gave a heavenly burst of flavour. The puddings were old timers - apple crumble had a topping so fabulously stodgy it was practically shortbread; bread and butter pudding was not good, with way too much egg white.

There is no gastropubbery pokery here - this is a pub with a restaurant. The building dates back to 1720, and, as one likes in an old pub, there are strong connections to the past, specifically Charles Dickens' Our Mutual Friend, and it sits right on the river. Downstairs is dark, narrow and wooden.