Unpretentious, not chasing trends, no obvious tattoos on the staff and food cooked classically well, Arbutus is the kind of old-skool that can teach the new kids a lesson.

Despite it’s low-rent, quasi-shabbiness, Ducksoup is not exactly cheap and I left hungry, so will it survive? I suspect it will ride a wave for a while, supported on the spume and foam of novelty and social media, but it will need to try harder to get a regular customer base when the surfers have moved on to the next breaker.

I’d forgotten how tasty hake can be when cooked correctly, this was firm and swimming in a charming pink, porky oil offset by a paste of serious-minded olive. The best were the salt baked potatoes – three little saggy bags of potato fluff in those jackets you only got at Guy Fawkes parties when you were a kid – the sorts of potatoes that you dug out from under the bonfire with crackly skins

Harry Farmer visits the Soho branch of Hummus Brothers and ponders the student obsession with the chickpea based deity.

So, what can I tell you about So? It’s a Japanese fusion restaurant hidden in the snaking back alleys near Piccadilly Circus, almost entirely frequented by Japanese people the night we visited and pretty impressive.

In a bid to avoid cliché, and a calorie induced coma, Harry Farmer only eats of some of the pies.

A lot of critics seem obliged to say that Brasserie Joel is a great restaurant in the wrong location. It’s the usual snobbery towards hotels in genera,l and south of the river in particular. I disagree. It’s a great restaurant that happens to be in a hotel. Full stop.

For people who eat out at a high level regularly, it’s the small touches that make the difference between one fine-dining restaurant and another. Joanna Biddolph finds many exquisite touches, in the décor and on her plate, at 10 times Michelin-starred Tamarind.

Professional philistine and theatrophobe Harry Farmer discovers an infinitely better way to spend a night in the West End than at a musical.

I’m a glutton for punishment. Actually, scratch that, I’m just a glutton. It’s no surprise then that when I was offered a reservation for Copenhagen’s Noma, I not only jumped at the chance, I booked myself a same-day return flight, scheduled to depart only a few days after my return from New York. Like I said: glutton.