Patisserie Valerie, Old Compton St, Soho

I was asked recently to take a look at The French House in Dean St. It looks rather marvellous and I've made a mental note to sit in on a weekday afternoon, maybe in a month or two, with a bottle of something and to stare out of the window the while. But since I had one of my daughters with me, that particular avenue of pleasure was closed today. Instead, Patisserie Valerie, just around the corner in Old Compton St, provided the ideal alternative. The window showcases cakes decorated with swirls, curls and unimagined constructions of chocolate, lovely heaps of fruit and heart-stopping dollops of cream. All is yummy.

Once inside, it is best to go upstairs in the hope of getting a window seat. Failing that, anywhere will do. Smoking is allowed in half the room, though only until the general ban is introduced on July 1. Other than on public health grounds, this is regrettable: the place conjurs up smoky French provincialism of the 1950s and is the better for it.

The order was: citron presse for two, a pot of Colombian coffee, various sorts of club sandwiches, a little chocolate moussy thing and a raspberry tart with shortcrust pastry and filled with confectioners' custard. The sandwiches are prepared freshly on toasted granary bread and packed with meat, cheese, tomato, mayonnaise. Absolutely delicious. I can't say that the cakes are made on the premises but they were equally lovely. Lunch for two: £27.

Cappuccino count: 9/10. Very good.

Tapas Brindisa, 18-20 Southwark St, Southwark

And so from the ridiculous to the sublime. It is fatuous to claim to have a "favourite" place to eat in London, there being so much choice of both cuisine and venue, but if I had to name a current favourite, this would be it. Tapas Brindisa is found in a converted potato warehouse on the edge of Borough Market, across which there is a store selling most of the ingredients that feature on the menu. Getting a table is a matter of luck since bookings are not taken. One other point: there doesn't seem to be a high turnover a staff
- indicative, perhaps, that they enjoy the work and believe they are doing something worthwhile and doing it well. It is best to order a bit at a time rather than everything at once.

First order: two glasses of manzanillo fino - pale, cold, woody but not sour, very dry, lovely finish; a slice of potato torilla - tepid, sweet, soft to bite but firm and substantial on the plate, a light crust of egg and annoyingly impossible to reproduce at home; warm spinach salad with sultanas and pine nuts; five huge prawns served in hot oil that had been flavoured with sliced garlic and little red-hot chillis - a lovely bite sensation, fleshy, warm, white and firm. The tortilla and salad had a light dusting of rock salt which brought out all the other flavours.

Second order: bottle of rose rioja (garnacha and tempranillo blended with viura) - beautifully cold and pink with fruit flavours but not an overpowering smell, very good; charcuterie of Teruel Serrano ham, finely sliced pork loin, paper-thin chorizo and salchichon, also served with bread and a little bowl of peppery oil.

Third order: anchovy salad - a few fillets, not too salty, in fact not at all salty, with sliced sweet pepper, red onion, rocket, walnut fragments, garnish of mint and parsley; five slices of pork loin - browned on savoury on the outside, pink and melts-in-the-mouth soft in the centre and served with a large slice of Piquillo pepper, very sweet.

Still with me? I am getting rather ashamed now at the size of this meal.

Fourth order: chocolate mousse - beautifully piped out in a glass, chocolatey, not sugary; egg custard flavoured with cardamom and with a thin but crunchy brown sugar crust, almost like a sheet of glass (blowtorch?); two glasses of espresso with rum - a sudden and shocking boost of alcohol with caused instant flushing and beads of sweat on the forehead.

An hour or so at the table and the bill was £90, the most I have ever spent here. Never had a bad meal, only ever had good ones - breakfasts and lunches as well as afternoon snacks and quick coffees. Drop everything and go now.

Cappuccio count: 11/10. Transformed by gluttony into a barrel of sac and rolled home to bed.

Ikea Lakeside, Heron Way, West Thurrock

No visit to pine furniture Valhalla would be complete without a stop for meatballs, berry sauce, gravy, chips, a nice little franzipane cake with an iced top and a cup of coffee. I don't know what meat is in the balls or what berries are in the sauce but I do know that the gravy is similar in colour and texture to lathe coolant and, to continue the image, the chips are like swarf. You get 15 meatballs in a regular serving, 20 in les grande edition. Also on the menu is haddock in breadcrumbs, garden peas and chips with a slice of lemon and a sachet of Heinz tartar sauce. All the food is left on a hot counter, which is handy because the service is so desperately slow, as it is at the checkout. Coffee ok. £10.70 at the till.

Cappuccino count: 2/10. As with all junkfood, you are hungry 20 minutes later.

Little Chef, eastbound A14, Kettering

The inexorable slide towards awfulness continues, and there's not far to go now. Yet I remain fond of the brand and wish dearly that Little Chef was not in such straits. The order was a double Olympic burger - two 6oz patties of head, hoof and hide, bacon, cheese, onion rings, chips, lettuce, relish, tomato (£7.49) - and a mug of coffee (£1.69). Problems: the coffee was dreadful, either instant or too long in a jug. The burger came with ciabatta, which is simply not done - it has to be a soft, white bun. Decor shabby and staff trying their best but, I would guess, quite demotivated.

Cappuccino count: 1/10. Did not finish.

Piccolino, 33 Pepper Row, Chester

A Roman city - Deva - with chain-restaurant Italian food and the occasional re-enactment society centurion clanking by on the pavement across the road. One of them had forgotten to take off his wrist watch.

Anyway, Piccolino. I ate at a branch in Manchester a couple of months back and thought it quite good but a little expensive. The food is lovely, though, as ever, you're likely to eat better if you find an independent. The girls and I started with a thin pizza base doused in garlic butter and covered in passata, plus a basket of warmed focaccia served with bottles of extra virgin and balsamic vinegar to drizzle. Delicious.

Mains were: penne with meatballs for Lucifer; troffiette with torn chicken and asparagus for The Blonde; pollo valdostana (pictured) for me. This was chicken breast coated in very fine breadcrumbs, topped with mozzarella and stuffed with Parma ham. Good taste and texture to everything, chicken especially good. It came with a few slices of roasted pepper and a very light tomato sauce. Steamed spring veg with basil butter was a side order.

Unusually, the girls decline desserts, opting to share a plate of pralines. I had affogatto - a vanilla scoop in a shot of amaretto and with cold espresso poured over: easily one of the best puddings I've ever eaten, a brilliant taste combination with warmth and a good finish from the amaretto and amazing bitterness from the coffee.

£60 when a further double espresso and soft drinks were added, so not a cheap feed.

Cappuccino count: 7/10. No complaints about the food, except that there isn't quite enough of it for the price. Staff very polite and obliging.

The Red Lion, The Square, Bakewell

Chicken curry with rice and a poppadom, the poppadom resembling in texture a bit of badly flaky whitewash or bubbling paintwork. Maybe in taste too. Chicken ok but I am under no illusion that the sauce was carefully handcrafted in the kitchen using a mix of spices. Also, at nearly eight quid, it was a bit pricey.

Cappuccino count: 2/10. Appalling farts.

Le Flore de l'Ile, 42 Quai d'Orleans, Ile Saint Louis

A salon de the rather than anything more elaborate, but with Notre Dame over your left shoulder, the river a couple of yards away, and the Latin Quarter across it, who needs elaborate? In short, Paris all rolled up into a little ball of deliciousness, though, happily, without too many braying imbecile tourists, it being a mid week afternoon. Now, I am no stranger to hyperbole, but I ordered a ham omelette expecting something nice but ordinary. What came was possibly the best omelette I have ever eaten, solid and weighty on the plate yet as light as a mayfly's wing in the mouth, the egg like a pancake on the outside and still just about runny in the centre. Gorgeous ham and just a touch of salt for seasoning. A white plate dressed with a sprig or parsley and some tiny slivers of tomato. It really doesn't get any better than that.

Extras: Pastis, fine; nibbles, fine; bread and butter, fine; a club sandwich with deliciously sweet chips, like Spanish ones, fine; two grand double espressos, wow; a plate of nice little choccies, yum. 41 euros and I would have paid half as much again it was so good.

Cappucino count: 9/10. Don't tell the rosbifs.