The old-school gastro

Question. What is a British pub without bitter? The answer is a poofy wine bar. Pub equals beer, surely? The working-man's drink belongs in the democratic space of your local boozer. Hence, this job demands a knowledge of cask ales, above and beyond occasional real-ale sessions with my old man.

So I've joined CAMRA and restyled myself as one of those cool Seventies babes with pints of Wadworth's 6X, tight jeans and tiny 'What We Want Is Real Ale, Not Watneys' T-shirts. A friendly gastropublican was persuaded to send me, in this guise, on a cellar management course.

I'm converted to cask. Lager and keg beers arrive already pasturised, filtered and artificially fizzed by the brewery. Cask beer, however, is conditioned in the pub cellar and therefore retains more of its distinct and natural flavour, and is free of chemicals and preservatives.

It's worth trying some of the multitude of beers coming out of Britain's breweries. It's almost a relief taking time off wine. I'm loving the lighter, girlier beers, such as Fuller's organic Honeydew - a lovely lie-on-the-grass summer drink. Next thing you know, you'll be growing a beard.

Lord Palmerston has well-kept Young's ales and a short list of wine in the £10-£20 range. It's one of London's earlier gastropubs and is very much of the old school - lots of hard mix-and-match wooden chairs, battered sofas and the menu chalked up on a board in that familiar barman's scrawl (which really should become a font soon). The Victorian interior has been stripped right back and painted a pale duck-egg blue. The two barmen were no-nonsense sort of blokes, a bit gruff and wry, but clearly bright, like gentleman builders.

I spent a happy hour alone at the bar witha bowl of good olives and some salted almonds. The customers were a mellow bunch of Guardian readers and all looked familiar with the place. Two stylish ladies in their early autumn were smoking cigarillos and ploughing into the red wine.

I was dining with an industry insider, who was bound to be a harsh critic. When he arrived, he looked around and said the place looked dirty, noticing the milky crust on the nozzle of the Gaggia.

We kicked off with broccoli soup (him) and rigatoni with Mediterranean vegetables (me). The soup bowl was the size of a pond, its contents unexceptional. The pasta was the kind of ersatz Italian that you whip up after a hard day at work. Its creamy tomato sauce was comforting, but did not mix to good effect with the pesto drizzled on top. The slices of fresh and floury-crusted soft white bread that came on the side were as thick as kerbstones.

The Insider's Toulouse sausage was not proper, rather the version made by a decent British butcher - not bad, very porky, but lacking the coarse, almost salami-like texture and vivid garlic and wine seasoning of the real thing. The mash and gravy that came with it were fine. A cosy dish. My pan-roasted duck breast was tough and grey and I lost interest in it. Also up on the board were various pan-fried or grilled fish and flesh. Honest grub.

There was no music, just the warm cacophony of contented adult drinkers. The bill was small, considering our snacks, the beer, the wine and the two courses. It occurred to the two of us that, what with all the fancy upstairs dining going on in gastros elsewhere, the old-style gastropubs are really just fashionably spartan everyday boozers these days, and Lord Palmerston is a fine example of that.