Razor sharp at Franklins

There's a saying in the restaurant game that vegetarians may find distasteful, but carnivores find very much to their taste: 'Happy in the field, happy on the plate.' It holds true - you only have to do a comparison between a cheap piece of supermarket lamb and something at three times the price from an organic, free-range butchers like Lidgates. Sometimes you put a piece of meat in your mouth and you just know it had a life as juicy as it tastes, and that the chef made efforts to source a happy little baa-lamb or Bambi.

Without getting all beyond myself and pretentious, sourcing is the difference between just eating and a good meal. The supermarkets have sussed that we've worked this out with their silverpackaged finest meals, but the people we really need to thank are those small suppliers who treat their lambs-totheslaughter like pets.

A prime example of this is found at Franklins, a small, warm and happily clattery restaurant in East Dulwich. It has a largely traditional British menu, strong on game and once common British shellfish, now rarely seen. The moment I read the menu I visualised the chef squeezing, smelling, tasting and seeking out the sort of foods which used to be the staples of Brits, from the working classes right up to the top.

In particular, razor clams. I always wondered what went on inside those cutthroat-razor shells you found on the beach. Now I know. Franklins gets its razor clams from Norfolk. The people of Dulwich, if my wash basin survey is anything to go by, are thrilled. What do they look like? Well, razor clams are to men as oysters are to women. Still in their shells, and cooked grilled with a little butter, they have a long and turgid foot surrounded by the sort of oysterish goo which is best left unexamined, unless you are into that kind of stuff. They have a strong flavour, less delicate than oysters, they are very shellfish (just like men) and taste less of rocks and salt water, and more of the beach at low tide. They are an acquired taste.

I dragged two glamorous West End ladies south with me. One, in Missoni, had goats curd, wild garlic and beetroot, which was pepped up with a tarragon dressing - the garlic leaves were like baby spinach with a gentle tang, the curd was a mild, goaty yoghurt. The other, in Prada, had rabbit rillettes, a little on the salty side, but rich and supertasty.

Around the room I saw regulars, everyone relaxed, biding their time. I bumped into two people I know - perhaps there is life south of the river.

The wine list was unusual, the wines were easy drinking. The Pinot Noir thrilled the glamour pusses who don't normally drink much because it's bad for the complexion.

Prada had pork loin and black pudding for her main course. The words Prada and black pudding have a charming discord. She said it was like mousse, delicious - the pork had been cured to perfection and was sweet, tender and lightly pink. Missoni had the lamb - very, perhaps too, garlicky, she ventured, but beautifully pink in the mouth. I had venison and wild mushrooms - the venison was not quite as flavourful as I expected, but Franklins do nothing more to the food than it needs and game is so tricksy, and, well, I just like it here very much.

I adored it when the waiter told us how the chef would cook both the venison and lamb. This is my thing, to eat things as the chef would have it - chef knows best and when I am eating out I expect him to be my nanny guide.

We finished off with a selection of Neal's Yard cheeses and gingerbread with a surprisingly peppery lavender custard. The food sits on the right side of unambitious. Overall I thought this was a job done cocklewarmingly well.