The Porterhouse, The Barnsbury

Yesterday was interesting. Owing to an unhappy coincidence of work-travel, work-work and poor social planning on his part, Gastroboy has been rather busy of late. So it was with some regret that Saturday was spent running around London is a blind panic being late for things, rather than sleeping or similar. As usual some of the things in questions were London pubs.

The Porterhouse near Covent Garden is not known for being a harmonious mix of Sunday papers, ambient music, and eclectic fittings illuminated by giant airy windows. It is in fact know for being a vast, dark, sweaty Central London pit where access to bar is via a scrum (if that's the correct collective noun) of giant South Africans. But that (the team were assured by the Internet and others) is in the evening only, and let's face it, the Porterhouse does have one of the most extensive lists of world beers in the city. And since the team hadn't been there for lunch and since Gastroboy's punishing schedule required a Central London lunch venue, it was decided to give it a go.

On the plus side, the lager/stout/ale list is titanic. Confronted with such a choice, the team overwhelmingly resorted to the house lager (a drinkable Teutonic pilsner called Temple Brau) The only variation on this being a bottle from Austria labeled 'The World's Strongest Lager' which at 14% tasted somewhere between sherry and Kestrel super strength. Gastroboy imagines that an excellent evening could be spent here comparing the lagers of Laos and Palestine, or blind tasting central European Hefes and Weisses . Except that he knows what evenings in the Porterhouse are like.

The food is pretty average at best. The portions were hearty enough, but construction was uninspiring. A 'super hot burger' transpired to be a bog-standard grey frozen burger (albeit a big one) with a virtually undetectable splash of sweet chili sauce. Beef and Stout stew basically turned out to be a vast beef and ale pie without any of that girly pastry stuff. That said, nothing was actively unpleasant, which is a substantial improvement over 95% of the neighbouring public houses, and the service was quick and efficient.

Gastroboy was much more comfortable with the choice of venue for the evening meal. The Barnsbury on Liverpool Road in Islington managed to defy its reputation as a snooty, unwelcoming establishment when a reservation-less Gastroboy, his brother and his eighty year old grandfather turned up for dinner at 6.25 on a Saturday night. Further more, owing to jazz commitments, the trio had to be out by 7.10, well ahead of the average patron's dinner time. To the credit of the Barnsbury, tables were moved around and they even opened the kitchen early to accommodate.

Beer in the Barnsbury is surprisingly standard, San-Miguel and Leffe at the top end but with the likes or Carling or Stella available. They have a good wine list, unsampled on this occasion. The food, though, is excellent.

The menu is definitely upmarket gastro, with more of a French or Mediterranean flavour than some. No gastro-burgers or wilted leaf spinach chiabattas here, but no roast partridge or game pie either. A Confit de canard managed to be moist and succulent, yet with a crispy skin and fall off the bone nature that most Chinese restaurants can only dream off. And served with mash and over a red cabbage thing that was perfumed with wine, cloves and vinegar like a Christmas evening, fantastic. Gastroboy's relations has the sea bass which was also thoroughly tasty and very fresh.

A one course meal with booze cost around £20 a head making this a little pricey even by Islington standards. But if you are looking for somewhere that is 60% restaurant and 40% pub (don't even think about going there if you aren't planning on eating), don't mind spending a bit, and want to keep on drinking once you're done, then Gastroboy can recommend the Barnsbury.

Incidentally, Gastroboy can also recommend the music of legendary 60 year old jazz bassist Dave Holland and his slightly more sprightly quintet, who played last night at the Barbican. One of a relatively small number of things that will make him rush a meal and leave the pub less than an hour from arriving.