The column accepts an invitation to visit Pepe's place, and finds it anything but heavy going.

IMAGINE, gentle reader, the early evening scene. I am staggering the 1,000 yards from this office to Darlington railway station, bearing a large cardboard box containing 200 magazines and with a bulky briefcase balanced ponderously atop.

Across the inner ring road, past the Cricketers and the Civic Theatre, over the pedestrian crossing and failing, flailing, towards the Mucky Duck.

The line of vision is akin to that of a Second World War pill box, the effect on the arms like something from a Tudor torture chamber.

An excitable Italian pants up from behind, bearing nothing more than a business card. "Mr Amos, Mr Amos," he says - he pronounces it like, say, Ham Hoss - "you must come for a meal at my restaurant."

La Sorrentina is 300 yards back down the road, between the Cricketers and the Civic. Either Pepe Terminiello is seriously out of condition, has been summoning up the necessary courage or has realised half way that he's forgotten to switch off the gas. Whatever game he's playing it is not, regrettably, passy the parcel.

His apprehension is understandable, nonetheless; there've been some grumpy reviews of late. The poor chap could simply have been running into trouble.

Cut to the chase, we nonetheless looked in a week later. The visit was unannounced and unencumbered, save for the lady of this house, who - like Neil Diamond's brother - ain't heavy in the least.

She'd had trouble parking, for all that, partly because it's usually the case in Darlington - even worse just now - partly because High Society was on at the Civic. She'd not just parked on double yellow lines, but double yellow lines at the back of divisional police headquarters.

Pepe had been enjoying High Society, too. "Sixty or 70 customers in 90 minutes," he enthused, as the curtain went up a couple of doors away and the temperature went down in the kitchen.

Firstly, however, he had to be read the rubric obligatory on such identifiable occasions: no special treatment, no extra chips (or whatever) and positively, positively no freebies.

The restaurant appears to have had several owners and as many names. Pepe worked his way around the North-East for several years - Shildon, Staindrop, Sunderland - before buying his own place just over a year ago.

The napkins, the menu, even the frosted windows bear an outline map of Italy with Naples picked out. We recalled the rhyme from Timothy Hackworth Juniors - if Italy should lift its toe, where would poor old Sicily go? - and another which seemed to provide the answer, the last line being "the middle of the Mediterranean Sea".

We also wondered about the phrase "See Naples and die" - wasn't it something to do with black plague? - but thought it better not to ask the head lad.

The main menu is predictable, at least in content, the specials board afloat with fresh fish from the market.

Starters might have been langoustine crevettes in chilli tomato (£8.95), salmon cornetti (£5.95) or lemon sole goujons (£6.95); main courses included swordfish pizzaiola ((£12.95), pasta and half lobster (£15.95), or at £16.95 monkfish chowder or Dover sole in vodka with prawns.

Great nets full of smoked salmon filled with crab meat were accompanied by a very pleasant Marie Rose sauce and a well dressed tomato salad, the sort of starter you could happily have eaten all night.

She had queen scallops with tomato and rocket and thought the dish took off admirably.

Background music was almost indiscernible, though Chubby Checker could be heard twisting again. From time to time, however, the calm would be assailed by the wailing of a passing police car. It seemed a bit of an over-reaction for parking on double yellow lines.

We ordered a fillet steak, the request unusual and the meat rare. It was cooked perfectly. The sauce of cream, Dijon mustard and mixed peppercorns was almost sinful in its sumptuousness, though the chef had been a bit glad-handed with the peppers.

The vegetables were adequate but unexciting, and would benefit from reappraisal.

The fish wife had halibut in an apricot and ginger sauce with prawns, and considered it a match made in heaven or at least on Hartlepool fish quay, which may be synonymous.

She also noticed that Pepe had photographs on the wall of his 16-month-old daughter and, beneath it, of a Formula 1 racing car and wondered which was his first love.

"She is," he said, equivocally, but meant the little lass.

With a jolly nice tiramisu and two spoons, two beers, two coffees and a big bottle of sparkling mineral water, the bill reached £56.

It was the most enjoyable night out for months: as Signor Terminiello might say, a good run for your money.

* La Sorrentina, 77 Parkgate, Darlington (01325) 467991. Open Tuesday-Sunday evenings from 5.30pm, happy hour 5.30-7pm except Saturdays. Any happy hour pizza or pasta £4.25, any chicken dish £4.95. Two floors, but no problem downstairs for the disabled.

A PLEA for help from a reader recently diagnosed with coeliac disease, which means her diet must be gluten free. Do Eating Owt readers, she asks, know of any pubs or restaurants which cater for people like her? We'll happily pass on suggestions.

FANS of deep-fried Mars bars, gateaux and death by excess lactation will be disappointed by the Chocolate Caf.

Others may find it a very pleasant surprise - gently civilised, attentively and attractively staffed and in Bishop Auckland.

The name seems to come from the colour of the external paintwork. From an extensive caf-type menu, the drinking sort alone contains the c-word.

It's at the station end of Newgate Street - remarkably inexpensive, chip and fry-up free, serenaded by a lady gently singing soul.

A large and exceptionally tasty bowl of home made minestrone was £2, a plate of scrambled eggs on toast £1.20. Not the greatest scrambled eggs ever to come out of the mixer but for £1.20, chocolate brownie points, nonetheless.

A FURTHER medal for valour to Kevin Graham, not only selling four real ales in the heart of lager locked Spennymoor but, before 7pm, at £1.50 a pint.

Two Sundays ago they had Mordues, Magnet, Prince Bishop Ale and Frolic from Gale's in Hampshire, plus a selection of nibbles on the bar.

Sadly there were no carlins, most of the North-East now supposing that a carlin comes half frozen to death out of a beer font. The memory may not, however, have faded altogether.

An elderly regular gazed suspiciously at the bowl of olives which helped form the Sabbath snacks. "Bloody hell," he said, "them's queer lookin' carlins, them."

STILL in Spennymoor, or near enough, Shafto's inn and restaurant at the Whitworth Hall Hotel reopened last weekend with a more open plan layout, new menu and table service. Like the fabled Bobby, we shall have to go to see.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you get by crossing a cow, a sheep and a young goat.

The milky baa kid, of course.