Eating Owt

Things are cascading out of control around here. The correspondence mountain, unacknowledged but by no means unappreciated, overflows like Etna on time and three- quarters.

Just as the good Dr Barnardo once claimed that no destitute child was ever refused admission, so the column long prided itself that no civil letter would ever go without an answer.

Heaven knows, however, what now lies forgotten at the bottom of that proliferating pile. There may be copies of the Empire News, or some half-finished O-level papers, or even a boy scout troop, long lost.

What, for certain, is somewhere amid the scree is an invitation to the charity launch of the Courtyard Bar at Bishop's House in Darlington. It came and went, the invitation interred beneath a sarcophagus of good intentions.

Bishop's House is in Coniscliffe Road, so named because it was the home of William Hogarth who, in 1850, became the first Roman Catholic bishop of Hexham, later Hexham and Newcastle.

Bishop Billy as he was known - though not necessarily to his face - preferred Darlington to Newcastle, anyway. "A bishop may go into Newcastle occasionally on great occasions," he wrote, "but no one should be condemned to live there."

The restaurant/bistro has had several owners, latterly former newsagent and Darlington Conservative councillor Charles Smith and his family.

Though colleagues call him Charlie, on the restaurant menu he is not only "Charles" - Charlie Smith sounds rather like someone who's just had it away on his toes from the Scrubs - but is described as "fine dining manager".

If an agreeable solo lunch in the Courtyard Bar is a guide, fine dining may nonetheless be pretty much what it is.

It's now open from 8am-11pm Monday to Saturday and from 10am on Sunday. Charles, after a lifetime's getting up with the news vans, insists that a seven-days 7am start is almost sybaritically self-indulgent.

Breakfasts include the usuals plus kippers, smoked haddock, even pancakes with fresh berries. This was 1.30pm, the day of the Queen Mother's funeral.

There were just two other customers, one built like a night club bouncer - or rather, like two night club bouncers - the other so comfortable on one of the sofas that he'd taken his shoes off and curled up.

There's a goldfish pond, expansive conservatory roof, lots of greenery, effective air conditioning. There were the Times, the Telegraph and the Mail but no Northern Echo. The gentleman was roundly rebuked.

Sandwiches, all £3.95, include marinated Mediterranean vegetables with black olive tapenade, smoked salmon and creme fraiche and tomato and mozzarella with basil pesto. Baked potatoes are also £3.95.

There were three soups, possibly of the day, the day before and the day before that. The tomato and basil (£2.75) was served in a bowl that could comfortably have seen service as a three metre diving pool, and was excellent.

We followed with a well presented seafood risotto, encircled with mussels and with a couple of small tuna steaks on top - £5.15, tremendous value.

The thought occurred halfway through that we could not only hear the water trickling but almost catch the goldfish passing the time of day. There was no piped music: sing Hallelujah.

Other lunchtime dishes might have been crab and salmon cakes with dill and lemon mayonnaise and chips (£4.75), two or three pies (£4.95), lots of salads for around a fiver. There are specials and a seafood menu, too.

Puddings are from the main menu, £4.50, and therefore out of step with what precedes them. A colourful iced mango and cheery parfait with lots of fruit was enjoyable, nonetheless.

Keg beer is £1.50, £1.25 during the happy hour from 3-7pm when bottles and alcopops are £1 and there's no necessity to eat. We had to leave before the appointed time, however. There was a mountain to climb; still is.

Live Wire, GNER's on-board magazine, has a down-to-earth piece on York's culinary delights. Among them is the Ha! Ha! Bar and Canteen - "an example of the hipper side of the city."

The decor is "neo-industrial" - whatever THAT might be - the atmosphere laid back, the cooking "modern and international".

So what, no joke, is the most in demand dish at Ha! Ha!? Three fried eggs and chips.

Fans of Ivor the Engine, the little locomotive from the top left hand corner of Wales, will remember that the Head office was called Mr Williams. Head offices, as Michael Hunt and Jones the Steam discovered, have much for which to answer.

There's a trendy chain called Kofi, with a little squiggly thing over the "o", that's brewing up all over. Michael went into the Kofi shop in Durham.

Modern music played; the television current affairs channel was permanently silenced. Since no news is bad news, Michael wondered why. Head office, said the assistant.

He visited another outlet, where the same mute point applied. "Nobody watches it, so we put the music on," said the assistant, adding carelessly that nobody listened to the music, either.

We went for a Kofi coffee in the Prince Bishops Centre in Durham. On the silent screen, curlers brushed hammer and tongs over the ice. Whilst it may be more of a spectator sport than the six o'clock news, the unspoken invitation to lip read suggested that they weren't always saying "Och, awa' me wee beauty", either.

The crab mayonnaise sandwich was a bit limp, the cappuccino uninspiring. No one listened to the music because no one else was there. Head office wouldn't have been impressed.

Advancing years, it was impossible to remember whether someone had recommended the barber's or the fish shop in Langley Park. One or the other, anyway, but since it was 9pm we went to Barty Franks's chippy.

He's been frying most nights for 22 years, talks a good potato - Maris Pipers, Maureens if you can get them - serves a mean Spam fritter and good, old fashioned fish and chips (£2 60). The barber's probably a snip, an' all.

Last week's piece on the reinvigorated Marsden Grotto at South Shields reminded Brenda Boyd in Benton, Newcastle, of a visit there one late June evening.

Though there was a well-set fret, Brenda and her late husband took their drinks onto the terrace outside, joined a little later by two ladies "of a certain age" - grey hair, white cardigans, flat beige sandals.

They looked in vain for the rock, even for the sea. "You know," said one to the other, "it's very nice here in the summer."

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a white Smartie.

Second-hand, of course.

Published: 16/04/2002