Visiting Oxford

Oxford

Paddington Station after 7.00am is a luxury. Mind clear of sleep and caffeine, eyes alert, feet no longer bounding on auto-pilot, dashing for the three minute coffee and the slam of the closing train door. Flashes of the past through the window cause a shudder, but it's a calmer journey, sat still and patient, rooted to the seat, with no change at Reading.

Visiting Oxford is like staring through a series of mirrors. Everything is familiar, yet twisted to a different angle. Sights bring memories and signs point in redundant directions home. Reality hangs out-of-reach only by inches, blocked by the floating bubble of perspex.

Change is slow in a city almost older than time. An old shoe hugs a familiar foot closely. Edamame, that hidden gem of a Japanese broom cupboard, still maintains opening hours determined by the mule and his spinning wheel. Healthy, nourishing seaweed, pickles, and beans counter the brain-addling qualities of near-frozen beer. Pork, breaded and soaked in a curried sauce, sweet with rice and soup. £15 is daylight robbery, with the customer holding the gun.

Yawning, belly-slapping, and belching from a duck and a pint under the Autumn-stained eaves of The Turf Tavern. Caffeine, hooked to the vein, drip-fed through the tangle of tourist and student chain-gangs marching the flagstone floor of King Edward. Cake, the other ubiquity of Oxford follows closely behind.

It's getting close to that time. The anxiety, the day of work, the week of work, the life of work, the tired mind draws to alcohol like a buffalo to a watering-hole. Etiquette and education left at the door, four wooden chairs, three lumps of cold coal, two imported lagers, and one pie, with chips and salad, carrying as many flavours as memories.

One last walk along the wall, one last peer through the iron gates, one last cigarette (she claims). Raoul's is a hot as it ever was. Drinkers drip off every wall, staring in awe at the dancing flames behind the bar. A drink from memory taken from the menu, placed back in the glass for one last time. Feet shuffle home, the chattering teeth warmed by the blanket.

Ghosts rise early. Scrubbed, cleaned, and out into the fog, back behind the glass sipping coffee, back behind the glass watching a world chased by winter. An hour and we are home. Drinks steady, not spilt. Heads clean, not dirty. Bananas peeled, not uneaten. Here's to the next trip, whenever that may be.

Pieminister - South Bank

Gabriels Wharf, 56 Upper Ground, London SE1 9PP

A walk along South Bank is the best way to see London. It's crowded and lined with expensive attractions and equally overpriced food and drink, but the views can't be beaten. From the Houses of Parliament to St Paul's, almost every iconic image on the London skyline can be glimpsed or stared straight in the eye. The bridges let you criss-cross the river to see other less obvious sites - including the bridges themselves - and when the sun is beating down on the white flagstone promenade and endless foreign voices fill the air, it seems positively European. It's Nigel Farage's Inferno.

On a Friday things are a little different. Groups of drunken idiots stagger their way from one poor pub to another. Swaying, laughing, shouting, and generally being jovial or obnoxious, depending on which way you look at it. Don't worry, the story ends well: one of us doesn't get served later on, and rightly so. On the surface, this really isn't the place to come for food or indeed drink - for the aforementioned reasons - however, there are a few gems hidden to the left or right, depending on which way you look at it. The Hayward Gallery rooftop, hidden amongst the tomatoes, is a great place for an afternoon drink; Canteen, at Royal Festival Hall, always offers up good food at a fair price; and then there's Pieminister.

My love affair with Pieminister began when I moved to Oxford. On an occasional lunch, when I wasn't scoffing buritto, I'd hop across the road to the Covered Market and push my way past the next Dave Snooty and his pals to get a seat. Freezing in the winter, boiling in the summer, struggling to breathe after eating regardless of the season. Now, however many years later, my eyes having deteriorated to see things only in sepia, I sometimes get nostalgic for those days, so seek out the original Pieminister experience. And boy, does South Bank provide that on a plate. A tiny wooden shed, filled with hot pies, hot potato, hot peas, hot gravy, and two women who must have asbestos for skin. Tucked behind two tourist honey traps, probably selling God-awful pizza slices at £7 a pop, the seats are all outside, so victim to every front of the English weather. For the memory of Oxford, it's better than the sound of a wheezing chubby-cheeked Tory on a bike. For the needs of my stomach, it's better than a hundred roast dinners.

I still love Pieminister. Plain and simple. Their pies could be served from a dustbin, by the gap-toothed, fingerless glove wearing, imported Nigerian Guinness (RRP: 98p a can) drinking man who talks to the fenceposts outside the flat until three o'clock in the morning. I wouldn't care. I'd gladly hand over my money and eat one, smothered in gravy, covered in peas, balanced atop a mound of mashed potato, and sprinkled with fried shallots. God, I want to eat one now and I just ate dinner. It really is an un-reviewable pie - akin to reviewing a member of your family. Well, not my family. A decent family (joke!). Impossible to judge; and I should know, I've judged pies for Britain.

So next time you visit the South Bank, ignore the overpriced pizza, stop trying to hear the tour guides spout their nonsense about 'The Ladies' Bridge' for free, and pay Pieminister a visit. It'll be the best pie you've eaten for a long while and if you don't like it, I really don't care.

The Victoria - Jericho, Oxford

90 Walton St, Oxford, OX2 6EB

Some places you know from senses aside from sight. The smell hits and time rewinds. The foot on the smooth stair. 'We' said in place of 'you'. The toll of the bell, alight for ZSL, and the warmth of the familiar on a cold day.

Some journeys are the same. Dragged along, not pushed, no map consulted, and cracks on the pavement dodged without sight. The pace perfect to the kerb. The pathway known like the back of the hand. That door, once stuck fast, swings open to a greeting from yesterday not forgotten. 

And the pie. Always the pie. The menu changed, shifting, white paper, brown paper, six, eight, and twelve, four taps and two guest ales. Each table, drops of clarity in the ocean. Memories of hot and cold. The crust perfect, the aroma the same, make space for the sauce and the square plate joins. Chips, salad, knife and fork, never fingers, that’s the same and no change. 

Seven Cs don’t come in to this. It’s perfect. A time before the city, before the other pies - both short and long - a glance through the window still shows the road home, the long walk and the key in the lock. It’s a formula, tried and tested. A memory of muscle. But there’s a time when the cord is cut, a name not remembered, the smell unfamiliar, and the taste foreign to the tongue. Legs of stone set north, twisted, turned, and broken, reset south toward a white light, the driving rain, and the warm sun.

A farewell to Oxford

Various

Better than any travel guide you'd care to read, one anecdote sums up Oxford perfectly. Visiting our local one afternoon, I found Bill Clinton sat in the back room, dressed in white, eating fish and chips, and flanked by no less than fifteen bodyguards. After finishing a pint of Fuller's London Pride (4.1%), charming a few old ladies, and exchanging banter with the locals, Bill left and pushed his way outside through a gaggle of American tourist to a waiting car. A typical weekday in Oxford.

It's ironic that the Mini was designed and built in Oxford. This is a city in tiny form. Everything is here within a single square mile: from China Town, to the West End, to 'ethnic town'. It makes a pub crawl near impossible, as you can drink five pints in the same number of metres. 

A cliche, but Oxford is a city of contrasts. The ancient buildings of possibly the most famous university in the world freeze tourists to the spot in awe; residents barely give them a second glance. Some of those same residents have the accent of a West Country farm hand; others that of a West Country landowner. That same university has an almost ancient Christian heritage; yet May Day is still the biggest festival of the year. The west of the city is one giant cow filled meadow; the south, one giant housing estate. The Cowley car plant is a state-of-the-art German owned facility producing mile after mile of Mini Coopers; the local brewers could probably run their delivers from a single mini.  

Oxford has spawned a disproportionately high number of artists: Lewis Carroll, Tolkein, Philip Pullman, Radiohead, Supergrass, to name a few. And they keep coming, with Foals, Stornoway, and others. The same can be said for brewing, where you have the established brands of Hook Norton, Wychwood, and Brakspear, alongside the new comers: Oxfordshire Ales, The Shotover Brewing Company, and Compass Brewery.

Aside from drinking a pint three feet from a former president, whilst in Oxford I've had Pimm's with monks on the lawn of Trinity College, a beer or two with a former CIA director, blacktie dinner at Blenheim, and meals at countless colleges. My employers have sent me from Oxford to The Hague, Istanbul, and New York. I've been up early running with the cows in Port Meadow and up late drinking in the Jamaican bar. For all my friends - residents and non-residents alike - criticise Oxford for being provincial, it's certainly provides some interesting experiences.

Sitting in the White Rabbit one lunchtime I was asked, if you could take one pub from Oxford with you, which would it be.

The Victoria immediately sprang to mind, with it's brilliant pies, ever changing ales, chilled glasses, and attentive staff. It probably just about edges it, but the more I thought, the more pubs flooded my mind, each the best for different occasions.

On a sunny day avoid The Trout like the plague and instead head to the benches at the front of The Plough in Upper Wolvercote. Alternatively, walk along The Thames to the lawn of The Isis Tavern, a quiet drink at the back of The Gardeners Arms in Jericho, or join the students in the garden of Cafe Tariffa on Cowley Road. 

If you're looking for a tourist's taste of Oxford, you can't go wrong with The Turf Tavern, The King's Arms, The Head of the River, or The Bear Inn. At each you will have to fight for a seat; although, in the dead of winter, the cold scares the tourists from The Turf Tavern, and you can sit outside with mulled wine and marshmallows in front of a roaring brazier. 

For a night out, definitely steer clear of George Street (except for a trip to The Grapes) and the west of the city. Instead, Duke of Cambridge in Jericho offers up great cocktails, and Raul's in Jericho offers up exceptional cocktails, albeit with limited space. Cowley Road is really the only option for a late night; there are enough Moroccan bars to shake a fez at, a couple of unremarkable clubs, and a Jamaican bar which never seems to close.

Oxford is possibly bucking the national trend for declining pubs. Pubs close and re-open weeks later in a much better state. The St Aldates Tavern, The Library, The Rickety Press, The Magdalen Arms, and The White Rabbit all replaced mainly hideous pubs which were never going to last much longer. And they keep coming, with Jacob's Inn in Wolvercote possibly the latest new food and drinking hotspot within the ring road.

All-in-all, I'll miss Oxford's many, many drinking and culinary options. London, of course, surpasses Oxford with number and range, but being a small town (city) of only 150,000 people, there is a hell of a lot on offer.

The Weekly

Various

Each week I find myself in various pubs, bars, and restaurants that for reasons of time, company, or phone signal I can't flag or comment on. This is an attempt to give those places some recognition.

The Victoria - Jericho, Oxford - full review

My number one choice in Oxford. Everything thought through perfectly and staff brilliantly trained. Ales served in your choice of straight glass or tankard, lager served in an chilled glass. Large garden at the back and small sun-trap at the front. Whatever you do, buy a pie.

The Bear Inn  - Central Oxford - full review

A classic Oxford tourist trap - low ceilings, few seats, and eccentric collection of tie cuttings. A Fuller's pub, so guaranteed a nice pint of London Pride, but also serves ale from Shotover Brewery. The staff here can be quite slow, so on a Friday afternoon expect a long wait.

Chiang Mai - Central Oxford

An overrated thai restaurant which offers better than average food, but nothing you couldn't make yourself with a pot of Thai Taste. Definitely visit if you're touring the interesting architecture of Oxford - visit SoJo or Edamame if you want something Asian and far better.

Barburrito - Paddington Station, London - full review

I usually arrive in to Paddington at dinner time, so this has become a regular haunt. That said, it's not quite as good as The Mission or Benito's Hat. It offers some very strange additions to the usual burrito (mushrooms?) and seats are at a premium.

The Big Bang - Oxford

42 Oxford Castle Quarter, Oxford, OX1 1AY

Sausage and mash truly is the Great British meal. We may be known as Le Rosbifs on the continent, but while the 18th Century John Bull hoovered up metres of dripping red tenderloin, the plebs on the street would have been content with whatever snout, entrail, and gristle could be ground in to a paste and shoved inside an intestinal casing - a latter-day Findus lasagne.

Of course, peasant food has been hugely fashionable for years and the levy board and independent restaurants alike have pushed the public to return to their roots and eat that which their ancestors did. Now, though, you have quality in your sausages. No longer a cheap, insipid tube of indeterminable substance that couldn't deliver salmonella if it tried for it's lack of meat, sausages ooze quality as they do fat - free range, outdoor bred, organic, black pepper, leak, rare breed. Sainsbury's have 17 Taste-the-Difference options, while The Guardian has a dedicated page under 'Life & Style' - the litmus test for any aspiring middle-class food.

To say The Big Bang serves up sausages of quality and variety would be an understatement. I counted over 15 different options, from Cumberland to lamb and apricot - and a host of others in between. And if each tastes as good as the three I sampled (Cumberland, venison, and boar and pigeon) then you have an excuse to visit 15 times.

The existence of The Big Bang seems the opposite of the sausage. The inside has remained constant, whilst the outside has changed. Founded a few years ago on Walton Street, The Big Bang has shifted across Oxford a couple of times, settled now in Oxford's Castle Quarter. A good move as, if truth be-told - I found the Walton Street venue slightly cramped, slightly twee, and slightly unpolished. The new premises are a far more professional affair, offering sausages without a queue to a seemingly endless number of patrons.

The novelty of the original has been kept, albeit more refined. The menu is a spoof newspaper, whilst their 'house' beer comes complete with it's own shot of ferment, and a piri piri chicken sausage is as novel as they come. I was ever so slightly disappointed by the sharing platter - the onion rings were greasy and heavy - but that is nitpicking. You surely don't come here for anything other than the delicious sausages, accompanied by warm mash (it's very easy to serve cold), and a sweat gravy.

Considering the sheer number of generic chains on offer at the Castle, The Big Bang should sit atop the list and find it's way in to your top 10 venues to visit in Oxford, possibly creeping towards the top 5.

The White Rabbit - Oxford

In the past year, there has been a proliferation in trendy pubs in Oxford. Grimy dive bars and Chinese restaurants have made way for craft beer, pulled pork, bare-wood floors, stripped back walls, and mismatched furniture.

Even established and popular greb-pits aren't safe. The White Rabbit - hidden down Friars Alley - recently replaced the seemingly popular Gloucester Arms. Serving real ale from the White Horse Brewery, alongside a couple of standard lagers and ciders, the slim choice of drinks suits the venue's size. As does the slim menu. Pizza is the mainstay here and starts pretty cheaply at £5-ish. I wasn't expecting much from the food, but as with the other trendy places in Oxford, quality seems key - and it was well represented by the goat's cheese and caramelised onion pizza I sampled.

Another mightily good addition to Oxford's trendy pub scene.

SoJo - Oxford

Oxford is a toy city. Like any other city in the world, but with everything on a tiny scale. Take China Town - it starts at Hythe Bridge and finishes two doors down. Two restaurants and a Chinese supermarket. That's all. Don't even mention the Jewish quarter: a single blue plaque nailed to a wall off Blue Boar Street.

When you have a restaurant like SoJo, you don't need the rest of China Town. Hidden behind dark glass and wedged between a sleazy nightclub, a hostel and a futon shop, this is an easy place to miss. Most knuckle dragging larger swillers on a Saturday are attracted by the bright lights of Bangkok House, leaving SoJo for the Chinese and the three of four natives who once read Giles Coren's review.

Being one of them, I am wise enough to steer clear of the standard Chinglish fare and go for the specials. Choose anything, literally anything, but always pick the pork hock. Succulent and sweet, so tender it can be cut with a spoon. A dim sum selection to start and one of the fish dishes, plus aubergine and pork or Chinese cabbage and mushrooms - my favourites. Be careful of anything with three 'S' marks and heed the advice of the waiters - they know their stuff and offer practical advice to those who clearly don't know what they're ordering.

The Living Room - Oxford

There's a distinct lack of high-end eateries in Oxford. Perhaps no market for them amongst the mainly student, don, and locals market. Surely someone is making money and needs to spend it though?

The Living Room has sat in the corner of the Castle Complex for time immemorial, whilst many others have come and gone. An attempt at the high life in Oxford: cocktails, piano, polished wood. A larger than expected dining room at the back offers a limited menu of burger, steak, mussels, and a couple of Thai dishes. 

The beer was Modelo Especial (4.4%) and the dinner was a steak. A little more medium than rare, served on a large warm-ish plate, sparsely populated with warm-ish chips, a strand of wilted watercress (not the rocket as described), and accompanied by a mild peppercorn sauce.

It's fine. Just fine. But nothing exciting. Nothing high-end. Nothing you couldn't do at home with something from McCain and Sainsbury's.

Burritos - London & Oxford

Various

I seem to have caught the burrito trend slightly late. Of course, I've long been a fan of burritos - having the excellent Mission in Oxford yards from the office helps - but aside from a Chipotle in New York, I hadn't sampled much else, so this month I set out to change that.

A couple of short waits in Kings Cross gave me the chance to try a Benito's Hat; a trip to Oxford Street,  Wahaca; and a late arrival in Paddington, Barburrito.

Being no expert I naively assumed that the burrito would be a fairly uniform dish - oh no, how wrong was I. Benito's Hat is a dry affair, with the ingredients not quite mixed enough for my liking - a line of meat along one-side flanked by a line of sauces and toppings on the other. Don't get me wrong, this is a good burrito, it just needs more work in it's preparation.

Wahaca was the antithesis. A much more sit-down-and-dine kind of place, the burrito was served swimming in juice, with the meat itself already sticky and dripping red before any further sauce was added. I consider myself quite the accomplished burrito eater, but this required a technique of continuous rolling to avoid sleeve dribble and saturated no fewer than four napkins.

Barburrito in Paddington was slightly lacking in flavour, but did achieve the correct size and shape of a burrito. No footballs here, even with all of the toppings included. Perfect for perching on a stool, eating with one hand, holding a beer in the other.

The Mission though is still my first love. A great tasting burrito, expertly put together, and accompanied on each table with individual bottles of Tabasco and half-a-foot of napkins. They even offer to swap beans for peppers and onions - something which caused confusion when asked for elsewhere.

Bill's - Oxford

The chapel on St Michael's Street which Bill's occupies was formerly the home of The Gatehouse. I worked there for a little while, spending one evening a week distributing donuts from Sainsbury's and sandwiches from Pret to Oxford's homeless.

Redecorated in metal and pine - no doubt by Tipsy McStagger himself - the chapel now branded Bill's is unrecognisable. Unfortunately, so is the food. After being served cold chips and a burger which had the texture of wet toilet paper, I pinned for the various high street fodder previously served up to those in need. As for the service, best not to ask.

I can't understand where or how Bill's fits on the high street. The menu is eclectic, the quality of the ingredients poor, and the cooking just as bad - they can't even get a burger right, the litmus test of most high street trofferies.

Screw the artisan jams from Uncle Bill's larder lining the wall as you leave. I've visited Bill's twice now, and I won't be making that mistake again.

Modern Art Oxford - Oxford

Tucked down a side street behind Oxford's not so pleasant Westgate Centre, Modern Art Oxford's cafe is a duplicity - a semi-outside space with bright hanging baskets and huge front door in the summer and a windowless, grey indoor space in the winter. However, as much as I like the former, with only an hour to spare and people to impress, the latter serves its purpose well, especially as you get sight of some sculpture as you wander through.

In reality, food trumps all at lunch. Soup, rolls, and sandwiches are the only thing on offer, but done well and with the option of multiple cakes, cookies, and some damn fine coffee, make for a great hour spent.

Oh, and they do beer...!

The Big Society - Oxford

Not wishing to sound too far beyond my years, but students are a lot trendier than they used to be. Gone are the days of £1 dubious doubles and coke, in their place shiny shiny bars and 'on-trend' ales and lagers.

The Big Society is the newest addition to this development in Oxford. On Cowley Road opposite G&D's and Atomic Burger, The Big Society has guest larger, a couple of wines, and a few cocktails. Buy it large, sell it cheap perhaps. They offer up drinks in 2/3rds so you can sample all the beers in a single night. When we visited they had Scholar (4.5%) from The Shotover Brewing Company as a guest and London Lager (4.5%) from Meantime. A nice selection, especially alongside the hand sized (yes!) burgers, chips, and chicken wings dipped in blue cheese sauce. Luckily they provide a roll of kitchen towel as standard.

Things seem to be starting well for them and on a midweek evening there were plenty of punters (damn lucky students), which is always a good sign. It was good, even if I am offended that students can now afford trendy.

Fallowfields - Oxforshire

I've eaten in some odd and empty places before, but none so odd and empty as Fallowfields. 

A country house/farm to the south of Oxford, the semi-permanant marque in the garden suggests the restaurant is aiming to take more from serving weddings than from day-trip punters. The food itself was fine, apart from a sickly rich gravy on the main and an overly complicated pudding. The location, however, was a cavernous room with only three tables filled, where Andrew Bocelli wailed quietly on a continuous loop and a mere whisper could be heard by all.

Once the boss came to dine with some minions, the attention of the waiting staffs evaporated and we had to retrieve the bill ourselves. Couple that with the sight of two kitchen staff (God I hope not the chef) walking past the window fag in mouth, and any enjoyment was plucked clean from the experience.

The beer was a single saving grace. A pint from Compass Brewery (I missed which one), the quality of which Fallowfields could learn from.

Woodstock Road Deli - Oxford

The Woodstock Road Deli is a place I've queued a couple of times during their lunchtime rush. This used to be much more of a deli than the 'lunch-venue-with-deli-counter-attached' that it's become. It's not a bad thing though. Hearty and delicious plates of stew, with rice or potatoes are on offer, with the same efficiency you'll find at their sister in the Covered Market - Alpha Bar.

Breakfast here was a different kettle though. One girl struggling under the weight of early morning orders from the typical North Oxford stiff upper lip brigade - wanting their bacon sandwich and coffee to be organic, soy, fair trade and just so. She did well enough, but as I frequently find some very simple basics were missed. No heat in the plate made the egg go cold; coarsely chopped parsley 'sprinkled' in a single lump led to a single mouthful of overpowering flavour (and bits in my teeth).

Nice setting, good coffee, but stick with lunch.

The Trout, The Perch, The Punter - Oxford

Due to a lack of planning and a laziness to leave the dinner table and head outside to the partially frozen, partially thawing Oxfordshire countryside, our four pub Thames Path pub crawl was somewhat shorter than planned - clearly.

As the sun began to dip behind the horizons, we began our walk with a drink in The Trout. As with Ikea, I visit The Trout once every 12-months, leave quickly, and promise to never come back again. The Trout smells like a canteen, it's much prized riverside position is a torrent of brown water tumbling over a weir, and within the space of five minutes we were served not one, but two drinks with dead flies floating amongst the ice.

Luckily, the briefness of our visit meant there was still enough light for us to find our way to The Perch. A beautiful pub in beautiful surroundings, and so busy inside on such a cold wet day that we were relegated to the garden - underneath a heater, with blankets on every chair. The Trout, take note. This is how to do a pub, and not a fly in sight.

A couple of pints of Brakspear Bitter (3.4%) saw us tackle the last thirty minutes of pitch black towpath with confidence, before we threw open the doors of The Punter. The heat burnt my eyes, but was most welcome. The lack of customers was a surprise though. This is a nice looking pub, with plenty of space, large tables and some good beers on tap. It's a slight walk from the town centre and passing traffic must be near nil on a winter's evening.

So concluded our walk. We finished the evening with a beer in The Grapes - a pint of Bath Ales Gem (4.8%), which was slightly soapy - and a visit to The King's Arms for Winter Pimm's, pork crackling as thick as your arm, and a couple of quid lost in the fruit machine.

Turl Street Kitchen - Oxford

I am a big fan of the Turl Street Kitchen. Located in a formerly dilapidated three (?) storey building at the end of the picturesque Turl Street (as the name suggests), Turl Street Kitchen is a proper student-chic venue offering a 'for all occasions' ethos. Reclaimed tables, angled lamps, ancient sofas, coffee, beer, lunch, and dinner. Their profits also support Oxford Hub.

As with the Missing Bean at the other end of the street, the perpetual student sit-in gives a friendly feel, but does occupy almost every table in the bar/lounge. Dinner can also be tricky if you haven't booked, although this time it's paying guests taking up the space.

Drinking a sparkling and crisp Freedom Four (4.0%), sat alongside my guests light looking Marlow IPA (3.7%), I started the meal with a beetroot, pear, and walnut salad and followed with a buffalo rump steak. Both were large, and I do mean large - the salad on it's own satisfied my hunger, but I couldn't resist the pink of that steak. I have to question the chef's mustard fetish though. The beetroot was the worst, but everything in both dishes arrived coated in a mustard dressing that hit my nose like a pepper-spray and required most of the Freedom Four to cool.

Aside from that single moan, Turl Street Kitchen is one of Oxford's best and should be paid a visit by residents, students, and tourists alike.

Blenheim Palace - Oxford

It's not often you get an invite to Blenheim Palace for breakfast. Normally you have to pay just to walk the grounds. This time, someone else was paying. Don't worry, the Marlbroughs weren't dishing it out for free.

My sceptical side says that meals like this are mediocre to average, with the grandiose setting blinding you from the food on the plate. This, however, was good. Very good. The coffee was decent, the orange juice fresh, the food delivered hot - no mean feat when fifty people are dining simultaneously.

But the one thing that elevated this meal from the good to the very good was the plate. A single white round plate. No squares, no smorgasbord of an itemised breakfast, this was a single plate with everything (bar toast) rubbing shoulders with everything else.

The absence of a round plate for something as simple of breakfast sickens me. It's fiddling for the sake of fiddling. Possibly a distraction tactic. If the chef has one moment to think about the plate, then I would expect the meal to be perfect. If not, then that one moment was wasted.

Branca - Oxford

When I'm old and have little more to do than dress and ride the bus for free from 9.00am, my dream - the dream - is to own a restaurant. Not a restaurant to be involved in and not a restaurant aiming for Michelin level food. One that I can shuffle to every day for lunch, sit in my corner, and wait until closing.

It's an Italian stereotype - the old man alone at the lone table sipping wine, beer, coffee, or hovering a spoon above cold soup. He's never going to move and no-one is ever going to take his place. Why? Because he's the owner.

And if I had to choose that restaurant today, it would be Branca. 

In the heart of Oxford's fashionable Jericho, Branca serves the sort of food I could eat everyday and the sort of cocktails I could drink every minute. We last visited the week before Christmas, when they were  setting the place for multiple Christmas parties. Managing to negotiate the use of a table for a short time, we shared a starter of antipasti, then liver and lamb mains. The lamb was slightly too rich, served with potatoes dauphinoise and a syrup like gravy - I was glad the starter had been light. There was also confusion around the greens. Spinach, chili and garlic were said to be the only thing available, before the lamb was then presented with broccoli. Perhaps they knew this sweet dinner needed an additional green balance.

No pudding or coffee as the coin in the tables metre had expired. Probably a good thing as I was sorely tempted by another mango caipirinha.

The Royal Oak - Oxford

Burgers seemed to be the vogue of 2012, with every pub putting out the 'best burgers' sign, and gourmet burgers even venturing outside of London.

With all this choice comes the need to differentiatie. Experiment. Try creating a signature burger as a break from the norm. If memory serves me correctly, The Royal Oak offered up a pork and chorizo burger alongside the traditional plain. I opted for the latter and perched on the only remaining seat in what is a surprisingly large maze-like pub, just north of Oxford City Centre.

It's hard to imagine how a pub could fail in this area. The academic audience on the doorstep, although quiet in the summer, is large, thirsty, and growing. Wooden floors, lots of seats, ale on taps, and giant Jenga. Done. I've never seen the place quite so full as it was on this particular visit though.

The burger arrived aside a pint of Doom Bar (4.0%) from a chatty waitress (bar staff? server?) and informed me that this was an excellent choice, freshly made today. I like the enthusiasm, but for the price I would expect fresh. What I disliked with this, as with all burgers, was the size. The sheer bulk of meat soaks the bread and ruins the taste - for heat to penetrate the centre, the poor thing is left bone-dry at the edge. And you can't even fit it in your mouth.

I'm sure many will disagree. Meat is king. But I like my food to be balanced. The right amount of meat for the right amount of bread. My advice...concentrate on the classic before taking on the signature.

Anyway, a good pint and good chips couldn't be sniffed at. And as it was about 10.00pm I did finish the lot.