Tavern, London: ‘Go if you want to feel fantastic’

I am 41 and back in Shoreditch, east London, where I used to spend a lot of time when I had – I assume – different ears from the ones I have now. Back then, as I flitted between bowls of pho and the enormous sound system at basement nightclub Plastic People, I’m not sure I felt the need to pause conversations for sirens or people slamming pallets of brioche buns down out of big, loud lorries. Have you heard of ageing? We’re all doing it.

That was also the period of my life when I was most engaged with restaurant reviews, most aware of the plethora of small plates on the scene, most aware of tableware choices and the clues they held about a restaurateur. Something obvious occurs to me now: the frequency with which you enter restaurants hampers your judgment. Your stage of life hampers your judgment. On one hand, I am now more likely to say, “Well, that was nice!” about anything that’s not the pub with kids; on the other, I don’t get to do this often, so it’d better be good. I do not want to squander a rare lunch hour with my husband.

I slip inside Tavern, escaping the pallet- slamming of Old Street. It’s high noon and out of habit I booked a table at the counter, overlooking the open-fire cooking. But walking in, I realise that the counter is for buzzy evenings, not now. Instead, I ask for a conspiratorial corner banquette.

I’m moved and feel instantly soothed, partly because of the monochrome elegance and partly because while waiting for my husband I am privy to the gorgeous chats that staff are having around me. Something about a delivery of six potatoes requiring two men. Something about how much they love the mushrooms, and is everyone feeling all right? Does anyone need anything? A cold Coke? My ears and I are at ease.

The name Tavern is written in gothic typeface on the restaurant’s facade and on the squares of greaseproof paper that snacks will arrive on shortly. References to a convivial tavern of yore are in the Victorian sconces and hanging lanterns, and the antique silver plates that adorn tongue-and-groove panelling. My senses and I appreciate the smell of charcuterie in the air. But the space is cool and modern and very London, with added cosy bits, like shaggy sheepskins. And the font tells me: you’re supposed to have fun here. You can slosh your wine a little. The sausage has cuttlefish in it. We’re stylish, but we’re up for a laugh.

Said laugh is under way with pickleback martinis, snacks and a soundtrack of 1990s ska punk. The martini comes with a stick of cornichons and English charcuterie in it, and is laced with sweet pickled pepper, which makes us giddy. We delight in the pillowy, herby, garlicky fire bread (topped with rosy pink garlic flowers) to the sound of Baggy Trousers, which is just funny whichever way you look at it. The chunion puff is a velvety, super-savoury bite, with a vast cloud of parmesan. We are told: it’s an “all-in-oner – if you can”. We can. We do. We conquer. It’s my Greggs cheese-and-onion bake dream, refined and distilled to a puff.

Long, wavy ribbons of light, frothy pigskin stand in a silver tankard. See? Fun! These are dipped in creamy smoked cod roe, silky on the tongue and saltily addictive. And there are plenty of them. In a cold world, this surf-and-turf abundance comforts me.

The now age-old question of how many small and large plates to order is handled beautifully by staff, and I am encouraged to feel good about my decisions, for once. I relax over a single baked scallop from the Isle of Skye, smothered in spicy, nutty, savoury XO made with Kentish cobnuts, though they’ve lost me a bit with the bowl of seashells it’s served on, which looks like bathroom decor. It reminds me of something a friend’s dad used to say: “Was the fish born with a lemon in its mouth?”

The asparagus is a version of something I’ve ordered a thousand times, which means I know what I’m dealing with. This asparagus, from a farm outside Cambridge, is the lucky bearer of beautiful brown-butter hollandaise and lots of shaved egg yolk. It’s a dish that’s as much itself as it’s possible to be, and I love that; I aspire to it. Contrarily, the mushrooms with roasted yeast and barley are not like any dish I’ve seen before. This looks like a fairytale on a plate – flamboyant funghi from Merit (a family-run, London-based mushroom farm) in a potion-like, bubbling, yeasty foam. It’s my favourite dish by miles.

I want to go out on a high so I leave most of the underwhelming hogget to my husband while I descend a dark wrought-iron staircase to the toilets. I pass a pew and piled up bags of restaurant charcoal, sinking deeper into the saucisson incense. I feel like I can hear gentle choral music, but on closer inspection I think it’s just the hum of a fan.

Back upstairs, we have one mini brown- butter cake and an espresso each. Our server says: “You’ve smashed this, guys” as he presents them. It’s true – this tiny square of chewy, rich cake is my coffee’s best friend, and the powerful combo launches me back into the world.

As we leave, I say to my husband: “It’s like we just lived there for two hours – is that what restaurants usually feel like?” It’s not an easy world to feel fantastic in. If you want to feel fantastic, go to Tavern.

Tavern, 374-378 Old Street, London EC1V 9LT (tavernlondon.co.uk). Snacks and small plates £8-15; mains £24-34; desserts £4–£10; wine from £7.50/£42