Skip it, it's a sinker

Look, I love Italian food. But after two weeks in Liguria, I was longing - no, aching - for something that didn't involve focaccia, fritto misto or bleeding pesto sauce.

You realise, when you go to a country whose culinary chauvinism precludes any tradition other than its own (unless you hit Rome or Milan), just how spoilt we are, especially in London. Our hearty lack of culinary pride and our enthusiasm for adopting the kitchens of other nations means that we're like children in a sweet shop: Nepalese? South African? Ethiopian? Chinese-Cuban fusion? Bring it on.

All of this preamble is to demonstrate just how much I was looking forward to my visit to The Fish Shop On St John Street, my first post-Italia assignment. Good ol' deep-fried, British fish'n'chips from the people behind the legendary and much lamented Upper Street Fish Shop - what could be a better antidote to all that sundrenched Mediterranean behaviour?

So I was in a genial frame of mind; even more mood-enhancing was the look of the place - cool and contemporary, browns and creams and woods; the floor-to-ceiling windows, mezzanine and (unused) courtyard giving it a feeling of light, airy space. Waiting staff were crisply, formally dressed, charming and decorative. It's light years away from the vinegar-scented chip palaces I love so dearly but wouldn't wish to linger in.

As is the menu. Let's hear it for those stars of the modern British canon: baby chard, sweet chilli jam, caper berries, samphire. Fish is indeed heavily featured, but there's also rib-eye steak, bruschetta of grilled vegetables and goat's cheese, and a chicken and crayfish casserole. I think it's called covering all the options.

I admit to feeling slightly cheated (I remember the Upper Street Fish Shop with real affection) until I spotted deep fried fish of the day - in either batter or matzo meal - with chips. Cod, then, battered, with mushy peas, I thank yew. Sadly, I had to live without buttered Mother's Pride (sourdough from Hoxton's Flour Power was little consolation).

This is when my bonhomie evaporated: the batter didn't have that lacy, friable, chip-shop quality; the thick slab of cod was slightly dry from overcooking (often a sign of not-quite-hot-enough oil); chips had a commercial quality; and the mushy peas were more like a stodgy pease pudding, lacking that vital, unctuous capacity to coat chips like a sauce.

Sorry about the rant: fish and chips are something of a passion. They did, however, remove the skin for me without a murmur.

As for the rest, my crab was less dressed than bludgeoned. It looked like someone had attacked it with a rolling pin and then crammed the results back into the shell; forget neatly manicured rows of white and brown meat. And picking shards of shell from the crevices of one's mouth is so not a good look.

A 'Cornish bouillabaisse' with a handsome selection of fish and seafood was let down by hideously shrivelled mussels; there was little trace of its promised lemony sorrel or fragrant nutmeg, rather an overwhelming-punch of liquoricey fennel. Fried bread and garlic mayonnaise was a garnish way too greasy.