Macellaio Roberto Costa - South Kensington

84 Old Brompton Road, London, SW7 3LQ

What do you want from steak?

A thick, juicy, tender slab of meat, larger than your head, cooked to perfection, and served with scant regard to the sides.

Sure. You definitely want that. But you also want the majesty of the steak matched with an equal dose of theatre.

At Benihana, for instance, the meat is fried centimetres from your fingers by a seemingly unhinged chef, who wields a cleaver and shouts incoherently, while his hat is on fire.

In a steakhouse in Sao Paulo, the steak is wrapped around a steel spit and sliced almost directly into your mouth.

At the Paternoster Chophouse, the meat arrives on a chopping board, held up at eye level on a metal rack.

While in Romania, four men at the head of a torch-lit procession carry the steak in a coffin.

Theatre. See. It's what everybody wants.

Macellaio Roberto Costa in South Kensington has theatre before you even open the door. A window of hanging beef sings to the world outside. It stops people in its tracks - honest! This isn't an ordinary butcher, with an array of meats, flanked by fake grass and box of eggs. This is a pure butcher, offering up a single piece from a single animal that needs no introduction.

Where's the beef? There's the beef.

Inside, tables, chairs, and a chandelier constructed from wine bottle  - just what you expect from any restaurant. The waiter (impeccable) explained the menu, offered some advice, delivered the food, and stabbed steak knives into the table bolt up-right.

Boring, boring, boring, THEATRE!

Think the Psycho shower scene.

The starter - beef carpaccio - was no less dramatic. Thin blood red beef, layered across a small tile on a large chopping board, presumably to keep it cool. The steak - tagliata - is possibly the smallest thing they serve here, weighing in at a measly 250g. Pre-sliced, so you don't burn unnecessary calories with the cutting, it's a perfectly cooked piece of meat.

Remember what I said? Juicy, tender, thick? Okay, two out of three boxes ticked, but the choice of thickness was down to my need for something that at least pretended to be a little healthier.

Of course, a pre-sliced steak left the razor sharp knife more or less redundant, but I amused myself by stabbing it in the table a few more times. It just seemed rude not to!

As we left, the butcher was doing something similar. Only he using an anvil-sized cleaver to smash through meat, bone, and hopefully not his own fingers. On the tray to his left sat steaks as large as house bricks. Honest to God, house bricks.

Macellaio Roberto Costa. What a theatre. What a performance. What a dinner.

Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecôte

5 Throgmorton Street, London, EC2N 2AD

To my left sat four colleagues. Strangers to me, they clearly knew each other well, as why else would three of them put up with the loud noise emanating from the fourth?

Not just loud, but incessant. A constant stream of deafening drivel that suffocated all other sound from the air.

When the bill came, she left for the toilet. Now's your chance. Run. Run away before she returns. They couldn't. They were trapped by a need to pay the bill and, perhaps, the blissful relief of silence, not wishing to disturb that perfect fourth course of peace.

Before long, she was back, but thankfully coats were all on and they left quickly. The panes of glass trembled as she turned the corner and disappeared along the alleyway, into the dark night of the City.

Silence.

The sounds of the restaurant drifted back into focus. The clink of metal on plate, subtle laughter, murmured conversations, a few in French - a good sign. We were in Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecôte, a name I'm glad not to pronounce. Red booths, wooden panels, and Mr Creosote sat in the corner. The bedrock of a good French meal.

L’Entrecôte serves food in that most traditional of French ways: a small table, not large enough for the smallest of orders; fast, well drilled staff; and no concern to the preference of the customer.

It's good. One menu, one meal. Green salad, again served in that traditional French way - swimming in a bath of dressing - followed by steak and chips. That's chips, not frites. We're in England, dontcha know.

Okay, there is one choice. The steak can be cooked how you like, from the choices of either medium or rare. No chargrilled coal for my Mother then. If you're mad, you can also choose not to have a second helping of steak and chips; but, they probably ask you to leave if you did.

I have absolutely no problem with L’Entrecôte. I'm sick of choice. There are too many options on most menus, and a lot of them I discount anyway. No, let someone else choose for me and I'm a happy man. Besides, if the chef thinks he's best sticking to one thing he knows well and cooks well, who am I to complain? And it's steak, after all - thinly sliced, pink tinged steak, drowned (again) in a green garlic-herb-butter sauce. Who needs anything else?

The complete meal of 5 courses - I added a creme brûlée and very French it was too; although, almost £6 for burnt custard is a little cheeky - with a bottle of wine, came to a nice £70-odd quid. Simple to split with the person sitting opposite you and one of the best value meals you're likely to find in the City, without barging through the crowd at a Wetherspoons.

As the creme brûlée arrived, so too did another table of guests. Two men this time, sitting even closer, talking even louder. Girlfriends, wives, weddings, and infidelity - a conversation of such City-stereotypes, it was hard to gauge if this wasn't just put on as part of the experience. My ears began to ring, had I not scraped that pot of custard clean in record time, they'd have started to bleed.

Time to leave. That brief window of enjoyment, over. The food at L’Entrecôte cannot be faulted, especially at that price. The company on neighbouring tables, most certainly can. Go, please go, just take a pair of earplugs.

El Rancho De Lalo - Brixton

94-95 Granville Arcade, London, SW9 8PS

Five minutes walk from the southern-most end of the Victoria Line stand a host of bandwagon-jumping restaurants and eateries, all desperately praying that their 15 minutes of famed-cuisine proves long enough to be profitable. Outside, an equally long and equally desperate queue of affluent 9-5ers wait their turn; people who long to be the skinny jean wearing, long beard combing, antique furniture from matchstick building hipsters who The Metro speak so fondly of.

Brixton is the trendiest place to eat in London, so say the words in my inbox, and so holler those free rags jamming the escalator of the Underground - disgruntled, of Wapping.

I'm far closer to today's gentrified and vilified Brixton demographic than the one of a decade ago - so close that I own both the denim and the chinos. I could try and feign indignation as the hipster phenomenon sweeps across the borough, lamenting the demise of whatever was here before; but I'd be as believable as a Tory MP claiming to have once ridden the bus.

In truth, I love the development of the place. New places to eat and drink give me something to do on a Friday night and a reason to open my wallet specifically in Brixton. I can't sit there, stuffing my face with the latest pulled lobster and fennel burger, and tut at the destruction of the incumbent culture, while shaking an empty glass and demanding more champagne. I'd be as hypocritical as those UKIP voters who buy Black Forest ham from Lidl. Wow, that's two political slurs in one review and both against the right!

El Rancho De Lalo sits at the heart of Brixton Village, wedged into the crawl space that even an estate agent would have trouble calling cosy, but arranged well enough that every Lib Dem voter, plus his family, could fit comfortably. I'm just throwing that in for balance. It's one of the more 'original' venues of Brixton Village; popular, but not the darling of those seeking shredded pork or ceviche. Instead, El Rancho stays true to it's heritage and serves up a traditional South American cuisine, consisting of 2/3rd meat to 1/3 carbs, plus a token side-salad. Unless, of course, you're brave enough to order the special, where carbs are substituted for yet more meat, pushing that particular side of the equation to around 5/6ths. It's heart strangling stuff, whatever you order.

That isn't to say a meat-fest isn't wanted from time-to-time. I'd been told before of their legendary half-plate steaks and a piece of beef a cobbler could knit a pair of shoes with was what I was after. Fortunately, the analogy with leather stops there. This steak would have made a very soft, tender shoe, far more the consistency of a well-worn slipper (or weak and spineless leader of the Labour Party) than a brogue. Back of the net! And what else is there so say about steak? It was big, it was tasty, it took a good ten minutes to cut through half of it, and another ten before I could stand. Perfect. And the fried plantain, avocado, and plain rice gave the impression of a healthy dish. Double-perfect.

Before the main course, we'd eaten through a thick piece of belly pork, fried to within an inch of it's life, just the way it should be. The fat, enamel-crackingly hard, the pork seared to maintain the moisture, served alongside a flat patty of cornbread. It was all a little dry, even if the pork did contain a thimble of water. Where were the traditional refried beans that dominate South American cooking? A small bowl of those would have been a treat.

Dinner over, we wound our way past the cheese eaters, the champagne quaffers, and the never-ending queues. I'm plagiarising myself to say it, but it's strange that people will stand in line for food when there are perfectly good, although potentially less fashionable, alternatives just next door. That's probably the one area where I and the new trendies of Brixton disagree; I just can't wait that long to be fed. Ever.

Flat Iron - Soho

17 Beak Street, Soho, London, W1F 9RW

Steak, it's great, ain't it? A simple to cook cut of meat, packed with delicate flavours and a deeply satisfying texture. Cooked properly and seasoned well, it requires nothing to enhance it's flavour, any accompanying sauce reserved strictly for chips. 

Steak is a dish that makes me happy, leaving a big grin on my face and warm feeling in my stomach. Flat Iron should have me beaming then. A restaurant devoted to simple steak, with simple sauces and simple sides. Unfortunately, it didn't. My smile, firmly an upside down frown in reverse.

Oh where, oh where to begin. This was a monumental disaster of an experience. Were it a football match, it would be a 4-0 thrashing, at home, with three red cards, and seven broken legs. So, like Match of the Day, let’s walk through it, the pain and the absent glory from the first minute to the last.

On arrival, we squeeze through the small door to find a small queue. Oh wait, no it's not a queue, rather two men attempting to pay their bill in the doorway (strange, but understandable given what came later). Ahead, two waiters, chatting to each other. Joking, to each other. Anything, with each other, but the job they’re paid to do. It’s a shaky start.

Next, we’re led downstairs to the small basement bar. Three beers ordered and charged to our table. Wait? I’m sorry. We can’t do that? No, you mean you won’t do that, not that you can’t. ‘Computer says no’ in a bank, ‘waiter says no’ in a restaurant. Get a grip. This isn’t McDonald’s. Stick it on the tab, like you’ll do with all the food I order and all the subsequent beers. Foolishly unprofessional attitude to running a restaurant.

A ten minute wait and we’re back upstairs, marched past the long benches and squeezed into a small box at the back of the room. I’d keep brooms in here, not a table and three chairs. We order three steaks: one, their standard £10 Flat Iron steak; one, a £15 Bavette; one, a £20 rib-eye. The waiter rattles through the menu at alarming speed. His face red from the lack of breath taken. He ignores one important distinction between the three steaks on offer - the weight. When quizzed, he regurgitates these too, albeit in two different measures, leaving me to do the calculation. Bizarre.

The waiting staff here are trendy. Super trendy. Uber trendy. The level of trendiness that stinks of arrogance and delivers an almost apathetic attitude in every word. It’s as if they don’t want to be here or, at least, they don’t want you to be here. Remember pal, it’s people like me showing up and paying that keep you, your skinny otter-skin boots, and your sustainably sourced earrings away from the labour exchange.

Like football, a meal out is a game of two halves. Service and food, split equally. The first 45 minutes, they lost. Terribly. Perhaps in the second Flat Iron can turn things around? Um...no. No they can’t. The food looks terrific. Wooden platters, with stone centres, hug the steaks lovingly. Small pretty bowls of salad, chips, and greens. It’s a beauty, but all style and no substance. All three of the steaks were woefully underseasoned. Bland as ricecake. The Flat Iron, chewy. The second steak, soft and succulent. The ribeye, wow. What an incredibly awful smell. I like my steak beefy, but this smells like it’s come from a part of the cow that’s usually left sat in the field while the animal is still living. Honestly, stomach turning. The chips too: boring and bland. The sauces, fine. The greens, great. The salad, tasty. What do people come here for though? Steak or the vegetarian side-plates?

At the final whistle, we’re hugely disappointed. As fans, we’d have left at 78 minutes. We couldn’t even leave at 90 though. Not penned in by police, but stalled by the waiters. Again, chatting. Again, to each other. Again, ignoring the people with money in their pocket and a bill to pay. What do I have to do to give you the money you so desperately don’t deserve? Christ, what a car-crash.

As we left, I asked for a quick comment on the food. The verdict? The beans were the best bit. Surely, six of the most damning words a steak restaurant can hear. Your line-up of ace steak strikers, defeated by the limp-lame substitute greens. Says it all really.

Gaucho - Leeds

21-22 Park Row, Leeds, LS1 5JF

I'm sure I'll enjoy being spoon-fed when I'm 80. At this age though, it just wouldn't seem appropriate - although the staff at Gaucho in Leeds might disagree, coming as close as is possible to offering that service without actually shoving a forkful of food down your throat.

One of a chain of Argentinian steak restaurants, Gaucho sits in a plush basement along Leeds' smart looking Park Row, a couple of doors up from the Slug & Lettuce - that purveyor of the finest generic lagers, pints o'wine, odd smells, and 2-4-1 chicken tikka on a Tuesday. Delightful!

Once seated, the spoon feeding begins. Your Gaucho waiter will deliver a non-optional description of every steak they offer, the geography of Argentina, and later the cheese. Granted the last one is necessary as you need to know which of them smells like feet; but the other two were definitely not.

I get it. It's steak. It comes from Argentina. You sell it and you're very proud of that. That doesn't mean I want a tray of your finest cuts - looking like something from a pathologists lab - thrust under my nose. Nor do I want a geography lesson on the topographical differences of a South American country. I just came here to spend someone else's money and eat! Help me out here!

Aside from the primary school lesson in ordering steak, Gaucho succeeded at the one thing I didn't expect it to - ceviche - and failed at the one thing I did - steak. That's a problem for a steak restaurant, granted. The ceviche was light, refreshing, and crisp, with the only negative being the poor slices of scallop which struggled to find a way through a deluge of chilli. The steak, while large, mouthwateringly good to look at, tender, and cooked to perfection, offered almost no taste - not even a hint that this was once a cow. With the edges trimmed, the rarest of the two pieces could have passed for tuna.

Such a disappointment for a restaurant that with a sleek black interior, mirrors set at every five paces, cow-hide covered chairs, and prices on the high side for London promised so much more. The abundance of salt that covered every side didn't help much either, although it could have been a poor attempt at injecting some flavour into the dinner. 

When the cooking is good, but the taste not, fingers point towards the ingredients. Argentinian steak is praised the world over, and rightly so. Succulent, tender, flavoursome. I know as I've eaten it locally and could point to where if she held the map up a little longer. Steak cut with a spoon is possibly one of my most over-exhausted stories. However, here its quality failed. A cheap cow chosen to reduce the import duty or transport costs? Who knows. I don't know anything about buying steak from abroad. It just didn't work, and perhaps that's no bad thing. 

While I'm not some militant local food activist, there's something not quite right about finding Argentine steak in Yorkshire. Gaucho made a song and a dance about the local heritage of their cheese. It's local, it's from a cow, so why can't their beef be? In London the Ginger Pig thrives, dragging meat in from across the country. Yet that same meat bypasses the centre of Leeds and a restaurant a tall cow might be able to spit on from the heights of the Dales. Such a shame and such a wasted opportunity.

The Jones Family Project - Shoreditch

78 Great Eastern Street, London, EC2A 3JL

Reviewing a restaurant can be hard when you like the people involved. To criticise a place for a lack of imagination or bland food, for instance, can be difficult when you've met the people who make a living from crafting the dish or promoting the place. Then again, criticism is supposed to be constructive, and any reviewer who turns a blind eye to the bad and comments only on the good due to matters of friendship is going to lack credibility, eventually.

Not that I'm skipping along arm-in-arm with the folks at The Jones Family Project, you understand. I've emailed them, tweeted them, and (now) met them (briefly) in person. However, it does make criticism all the harder to write. Luckily, I don't have to really.

The Jones Family Project delivered on what they had promised at their opening party. Steak served on a stick now came large, charred, and perfectly medium rare from the depths of their 500 degree Josper Charcoal Oven. Not quite the Fred Flintstone t-bone I once witnessed in Sao Paolo, but getting close. The recommended sides of macaroni cheese and grilled sprouts - served separately - were also damn good, even though I completely missed the avocado and nuts in the latter.

A comment has to be made here on the drinks. Flawless, they really were. An amazing vanilla scented red wine, everyone's favourite pretentious drink - a negroni - and glasses of calvados to finish. After that, I could still stand, but only just.

Now, unfortunately, I have to finish on a negative - for me and for them. In that classically English way, when asked for comment on the pudding, I nodded and replied that everything was fine. Pure Mark Corrigan. However, I lied. Sorry. Perhaps it was the friendliness of the staff and the quality of the food preceding it clouding my judgement, or perhaps just cowardice. Needless to say, the puddings weren't great. The overly large dish of chocolate mousse and a small loaf of brownie just lacked the refinement and flavour found in the rest of the meal. It was a shame, because everything else had been of such great quality. If they work on this I've no doubt gluttons from the four corners of London will be trekking here for dinner, often.

Tramshed - Shoreditch

32 Rivington Street, London, EC2A 3LX

According to the Metro, Shoreditch has lost its edge. No longer the refuge of dead-beat artists clawing an existence from the gutter, where carrying a lowly iPhone 3 would get you mugged, Shoreditch is now a candy land for the affluent, with Liverpool Street suits wandering up for lunch at a high street eatery or over-priced poncery. These days the Gucci-clad thieves won't give you a second glance unless your iPhone 5 carries an 's'.

Perhaps Shoreditch has lost its edge. I've no idea. I haven't worked here for that long. What I can say is that I'd rather trade edge for security, impoverished artists for cash points, and salmonella for quality food. Shoreditch is awash with good places to eat. Of a lunchtime, you can glutton your way from Old Street to High Street, and back again, on cheap eats, eye-watering bills, and everything in between. Try doing that in Harlesden.

Just off the glutton trail, tucked down Rivington Street, is a surprisingly large hall that is Tramshed. Owned by a renowned chef (Mark Hix), with a Damien Hirst centre-piece, and occupying a building that could house no less than a hundred wannabe Yokos, Tramshed is everything the Metro must hate.

Tipping its hat to edgy credentials, at Tramshed you can dine almost exclusively on steak and chicken - I presume a vegetarian option is available, but they'd probably have to blow the dust off it first. The litmus test - steak and chips - was passed with flying colours, although I would say my steak was slightly more medium than rare. Bonus points too for being only the second place I've visited which serves Oxford Sauce. I just don't understand why this delicious, spicy brown, anchovy infused condiment isn't more widely available.

A series of sides accompanied our meal, but having foregone the recommended Oyster Ale (5.5%) in favour of champagne, I really can't remember what they were. I do recall the pudding, although I challenge anyone to forget a bowl of molten chocolate served with marshmallows and donut batter for dipping. I can also recall the envy felt for my friend's chicken and steak sandwich. Half the price of my meal and looking just as filling, if not more tasty, with crisp pieces of chicken skin poking out from each side.

When you next wade through the endless high street chains clogging the streets of Shoreditch, lamenting the disappearance of all those oh-so-trendy artists and violent muggings, turn to Rivington Street, visit Tramshed, and within minutes you just won't care.