Passionate about Salt

When you eat out a lot in London, you get to a stage where you can tell a restaurant's provenance in the blink of an eye. Some, no matter how glossy, simply reek of the corporate: you just know they're the offspring of the spreadsheet. But within seconds of walking into Salt Yard, it was clear this was no such thing.

Actually, hang on: that impression starts even earlier. So often when you call to book nowadays, you get obstructiveness: automated lines, like Zuma; limited table-time allocation, like Yauatcha; virtual sneering - you, mere mortal, should be so lucky! - like Nobu; predetermined time slots, like Tugga (below). Not here: we were made to feel like we would be welcome guests, even before they clapped eyes on us. How refreshing.

That sense of welcome continued. We got a big hello from the barman on the bustling first floor (a more informal space - though neither floor is what you'd call stuffy - where you can drink, or eat, or both) and an almost too-enthusiastic welcome from his counterpart downstairs in the restaurant. Management were uniformly young and determined to show us a good time.

It looks good: plainly decorated in chalky neutrals with the occasional blast of colour. But there's a suggestion of the shoestring about it, maybe because its configuration is almost identical to its previous incumbent, the Japanese-lite Ichizen.

Turns out it is the baby of three young people - the classic 'let's do the dream' story. Simon Mullins (ex-Flaneur and Brindisa), Sanja Morris, and chef Brian Villahermosa, who has done time at The Gore and Isola.

The rather curious menu of Spanish and Italian 'tapas' is the result of their travels through, well, Spain and Italy and a huge enthusiasm for the produce of both countries. You can tell: everything we ate sang of an appreciation for real quality and a talent for sourcing.

There are cheese selections on the menu, charcuterie, meat, fish or vegetable choices and a cleverly put-together short selection of wines including some nice little oddities such as txakoli, the fresh, zingy young wine from the
Basque Country.

Jamon Iberico de Bellota, that king of the acorn-fed hams, set the tone: a fabulously generous plateful, perfectly cut, sweet, nutty and melting in the mouth - all for £12, far less than you would pay elsewhere.

Then, in quick succession, we had little croquetas of morcilla (Spanish black pudding) bulked out with potato; velvety slices of tuna carpaccio in salsa verde with teeny little baby broad beans (peeled! A fine indicator of the attention to detail); carciofi - fresh artichokes - chargrilled to highlight their almost chestnutty quality and dressed simply with a spritz of lemon.

I loved short pork ribs, long-cooked (till the meat fell off the bones) in the heady stickiness of Pedro Ximenez, the Christmas pudding depths of the wine making a stunningly sultry marinade.