Simply Kushti

Taking a week off from reviewing gastropubs, I went to Istanbul for some sausage-and-mash-free decadence. The city is home to an unruly selection of international misfits who live in the boho Soho area, Beyoglu.

An Afghani Austrian friend, Sashah, co-owns two funky restaurants with an architect called Emir Uras. Just before I left, we all converged on Emir's house, a blasphemously sexy converted imam's house. We were eating black sea caviar on French toasts, drinking iced Absolut with fresh lime juice.

A Pakistani film director was telling us about the time he took ecstasy with the Taliban. For laughs, a famous Turkish interior designer was doing pull-ups on a beam with his actress girlfriend clinging on to him. So far, so fabulous. So far, so very not gastropubs.

Then Sashah comes over with a copy of Istanbul's answer to Wallpaper, waving a two-page article about the Ebury under my nose. 'Do you know anything about these places, these gastropubs? I think I will make my next place a gastropub. What do you think?' Good grief.

We already have a gastropub in NYC, now Istanbul. The word gastropub has become so elastic now, it can be the rough and tumble of the worshipped Anchor & Hope, the Michelin dandyism upstairs at the Ebury, it could be the bistroesque charm of the Garrison, it could be the sausage-o-rama of the Windsor Castle.

All great spots, all wildly different. As one person said to me recently, 'It's a formula so simple it can be written on the back of a fag packet, but it's the way you execute it that counts.' That remark was made by Mark Slade, one of the four owners of the Kushti Group who owns three places in London and, conveniently, one of them is the Highgate. Strictly speaking, the Highgate is neither a pub, nor in Highgate. It is housed in an old carpet warehouse in Kentish Town.

The space is interesting, an old carpet and then car showroom. Sure, you've got your standard modern eclectic elements: dark wood, leather, mishmash of modern and battered furniture, mirrors and designer pints. There are also more unique touches to the decor which add something of that NYC cosy industrial look to the joint. For a start it's dark, meaning you can't quite see your plate, although by day it must be flooded with light because those old car showroom windows are still in situ.

There are variegated stylish strips of back-lit wood panelling on one wall, while the concrete floor has some most shabbytastic massive rugs on it. All in all, they've done a good job of bringing pub-like warmth to an old car showroom. At the bar, I became agitated because I couldn't get a drink.

Brother William said, 'Come on, sort it out sister, this is a pub, not one of your fancy schmancy West End restaurants.' To the meal itself. The bread was dull, initially, then they brought a second basket of hot ham and onion bread, which was dense but yummy. The Pompous Surfer joined us, an admirable wave-rider, but a living debunk of the myth that surfers are cool. Will kicked off with a side dish, tomato salad, woolly beefsteaks and sharp little cherry toms drenched in a lot of balsamic.

Pompous had some prettily pink and nicely cooked soft chicken livers in a salad, which, again, was drenched in a balsamic vinaigrette. I had Icelandic prawns which came served a la Mum's Seventies dinner parties in a scallop shell with some parmesany breadcrumb topping. Two problems with this dish - the mornay-style sauce was tepid and there were hardly any prawns in it.