Polpetto, Soho

In the 11 months or so since he opened the wildly successful Polpo, an homage to Venetian bacari on Soho's Beak Street, a lot has been said about Russell Norman. He's been described variously as the saviour of a fading Soho, progenitor of the next big thing in restaurants, and simply as a 'legend' in both its traditional and more colloquial senses. All of these may or may not be true, but one thing I can tell you with certainty is that Russell Norman is a gentleman.

When, months ago, I couldn't get in at Polpo and flounced off elsewhere, Russell's classy response was firstly to let me know, helpfully, when the quieter times at Polpo were so that I might better have a chance of getting in, and when that didn't lure me through his doors he promised to get me a table at one of the previews for his new venture, Polpetto, when they happened. True to his word, last night I finally sat down to dinner in one of Mr Norman's restaurants for the first time - and what a fantastic time it was.

Polpetto occupies an unusual site, until recently the quietly famous dining room of one of Soho's best-known boozers The French House, but now operating discretely from  - while still sharing an entrance, staircase and loos with - the pub downstairs. In keeping with Norman's love of New York the tiny room has been given a classy refurb in the style of a Keith McNally bistro, although bare brick walls, naked lightbulbs, aged mirrors and red banquettes are now as familiar to Londoners thanks to the likes of Dean Street Townhouse and Hoxton Grill as they are to any Manhattanite. Polpetto manages to stand out from the crowd thanks to a spectacular burnished copper ceiling, shipped over from a salvage yard in Connecticut and installed here for the delight of anyone minded to look up from their plates.

Given the quality of the food being turned out though, looking up from plates might prove difficult. Polpetto follows the same formula (so I'm told...) as its big sister up the road, offering traditional Italian dishes in a variety of sizes all designed for sharing from cicheti - barely bigger than a mouthful, The Boot's answer to Spain's pintxos - via bruschette, to larger plates which could easily serve as a main course for anyone not fond of sharing, or solo diners. Alyn and I tried seven plates which to be honest was about two too many, but didn't regret a single bite.

Anchovy and chickpea crostino was, as Alyn accurately put it, 'like fishy houmous', of a robust pâté consistency and ideal for enjoying with a Negroni while we chose what to follow it with. We stuck with breads and tried first a bruschetta topped with stracchino - 'it's like Primula', Russell elucidated - fennel salami and figs, then a cured pork shoulder and pickled pepper pizzetta. Both were lovely, the former rich with oozing cheese and nicely oily salami, the latter  matching sweet pork with tangy peppers to more-ish effect. The bruschetta, I scribbled on my menu 'would make a cracking hangover brunch'.

Next up was our one choice from the 'Fish' section of the menu, in this case crispy soft shell crab in Parmesan batter with fennel salad. This was as amazing as it sounds, the crisp, creamily-dressed fennel providing a cool, smooth counterpoint to the hot, crunchy crab. The batter didn't taste much of Parmesan but was none the worse for it. Moving on to 'Meat' we tried three of the five plates on offer, which between them delivered both the stand-out dish of the meal and the only slight let-down. The duffer was osso buco - tender braised veal shank - with saffron risotto which, although comforting to eat and better than OK, was somewhat bland and dulled down rather than enhanced by the so-so risotto.

All was forgiven however with our first mouthful of pigeon saltimbocca which as well as being the best dish we'd tasted that evening was also one of the best I can remember having this year. Fat, bloody breasts of pigeon came wrapped in salty prosciutto, the whole layered with a generous but not excessive scattering of sage. Served on a swirl of creamy white polenta it was a brilliant, imaginative, modern British rendition of an Italian classic. Our other plate, a ham hock and parsley terrina served with a mustardy egg mayonnaise and cute tiny cornichons was also very good; consistency-wise more like rillettes than terrine it was a further example of executive chef Tom Oldroyd's expertise and flair.

Full as I was, I still found room for pud, a magnificent, textbook, very boozy tiramisu pot followed by a thick, strong espresso to snap me back into life from my excess-induced torpor. Throughout the meal we'd enjoyed a bottle of Cortese Volpi 2009, the enthusiastically recommended house white at £15 from a short, thoughtfully-selected list of seven whites, seven reds and one rosé almost all available by the 250ml and 500ml carafe. Lilliputian glasses encourage slow, refined consumption.

Service was fun, informal and fast-paced enough to avoid long waits without ever feeling hurried. With an introductory 50% off the food our bill for seven dishes, one pudding, a bottle of wine, aperitifs, coffee and 12.5% service came to a laughable £54. Even without the discount we'd have got out for under £40 a head and it would have been even less if we'd not been quite so greedy with the ordering.

I still can't get my head around Russell Norman's aversion to taking dinner bookings, so how soon - or whether - I'll be back remains to be seen, but I can say without hesitation that I recommend Polpetto and encourage those without my Geminian hatred of waiting to go, go, go. I did wonder if it was acceptable - nay, gentlemanly - to write about Polpetto when, in Russell's own tweeted words there's still tweaking to be done and hell, it's not even officially open yet. But if it's this bloody good in preview, then it's only going to get even better. The hype might, just for once, be justified.

Polpetto, Upstairs at The French House, 49 Dean Street, Soho, London W1D 5BG Tel: 020 7734 1969 http://www.polpetto.co.uk

The Drapers Arms, Islington

If you'd told me, as recently as say two years ago, that one day I'd find myself bound for a pub in an Islington backstreet for dinner with a handsome stranger ten years my junior who I'd met on the internet, I'd have laughed in your face. (Replace 'pub' with 'flat' and substitute 'casual sex' for 'dinner' and you'd be nearer the mark, but that's not for here). That however was before I, said handsome stranger and indeed said pub discovered the joys of Twitter, the worldwide micro-blogging phenomenon which has made meeting people and going places we might never have come to know otherwise seem like completely normal behaviour.

The young man in question was the food-writer and supper-club proprietor James Ramsden (or to give him his Twitter sobriquet, @jteramsden) and the pub, The Drapers Arms or @drapersarms. Brought together on Twitter through our shared foodie leanings, James and I had built up something of a rapport in recent months and decided to take the plunge and make our virtual acquaintance actual. We chose to do so at The Drapers Arms on the strength of James's being a local and my having been charmed by the proprietors' passionate and eloquent 140-character musings about food and wine, and so it was that on the eve of my 34th birthday I came to be making this once-unimaginable assignation.

Despite our meeting being entirely platonic, I had all the nerves one would expect of a blind date, but James turned out to be as easy-going and charming off-line as on- so any initial awkwardness was swiftly dispelled. The Drapers Arms certainly offers very attractive surroundings to meet in; the pub is an unfussily but sensitively tarted up old boozer with high ceilings, stripped wood floors and blackboards announcing the day's menu highlights. There are some nice nods to interior design fashionability, among them the apple green-painted bar and a wall of bookshelves holding Penguin Classics. Outside is a really lovely trellis-walled garden with abundant bench seating and zinc topped tables, and as it was a pleasantly mild evening we chose to eat here.

Anyone who remembers the dreadful fashion in fine dining restaurants a couple of years back for giving technically-elaborate dishes one word menu titles might fear, on first seeing The Drapers Arms' menu, that the trend was making an unwelcome comeback in N1. Their fear would be misplaced though as the descriptions, while brief, in fact list everything that you will find on the plate, such is the beautiful simplicity of the food on offer.

Thus, our starters of 'hot crispy Old Spot pork, chicory, buttermilk & mustard' and 'smoked eel, bacon, pea shoots & chives' and our mains of 'poached sea trout, hot buttered samphire' and 'grilled quail, pearl barley, chickpeas mint & cucumber' were lovely, un-fancified platefuls of just those ingredients. Our starters were particularly good, with some nice touches. The buttermilk and mustard had been emulsified to make a smooth, punchy dressing mellow enough to flatter the fat dice of pork and shattering shards of crackling; the bacon accompanying the eel was presented as moreish half-inch lardons.

The stand-out dish of the whole meal was my quail; generously but not excessively seasoned, it was a plump, moist little delight so tasty that the carcass was torn apart and bones chewed to strip every last shred of flesh. The accompanying silky mix of barley 'n' beans was fresh-tasting and filling. The only very minor disappointment was James's sea trout, which he felt was a little over-cooked. Served cold with a generous helping of hot samphire it was nonetheless as saltily, satisfyingly bracing as a windy afternoon on Poole Quay.

Too full for puds, we chose instead a glass of Banyuls which was very generously offered on the house; I say generously but perhaps it was reward for our still being upright having already made serious inroads into the mostly-Old World, small producer-biased wine list. We'd started off with a bright, summery 2008 Picpoul de Pinet (which James had very sweetly remembered, from our online oeno-chat, that I'm a fan of), followed it up with a St Cosme from the same year (my favourite, a ballsy, rich 100% Syrah) and then just for good measure seen off a bottle of a light, berry-and-cherry ripe Sangiovese. Before you reach for the Yellow Pages to find me my nearest branch of Alcoholics Anonymous, let me assure you that three-bottle dinners are as rare these days as, well, meeting young men I've met on the internet for blind dates.

As the final cherry on a cake already made up of great company, super food, splendid wine and very agreeable surroundings, the service was absolutely perfect; a friendly, entirely informal vibe underpins a very evident sense of professionalism and care from a young, trendy team. It doesn't hurt of course that the boys are gorgeous (I think the hunky monkey in the checked shirt in the photo looks like a hotter Prince William) as I do find that a handsome staff aids the digestion magnificently. James would I'm sure not want me to neglect to mention too the brace of beautiful, welcoming girls. The bill was completely unscary; service included it came to about £50 each. A couple enjoying the same quantity of food but a normal volume of wine would be unlikely to rack up half that.

To anyone wishing to cavil that I'm being contradictory heaping such praise on a gastropub when I've been so critical of the genre in the past, I would say that I don't see (and I don't think the proprietors see) The Drapers Arms as being a 'gastropub' with all the aspiration to culinary fanciness that that implies. This is just that loveliest of British things - a great local pub, serving lovely and lovingly-prepared food, which just happens to be as good as you might expect to find in fancier places charging twice as much.

I liked The Drapers Arms - and the delightful Mr Ramsden - very much indeed. Both, if they'll have me, will be getting a second visit.

The Drapers Arms, 44 Barnsbury Street, Islington, London N1 1ER Tel: 020 7619 0348 http://www.thedrapersarms.com Twitter: @drapersarms