My yummy Valentine's

"Take her to Valentine's," suggested Tom Dobbin from Durham and, belatedly, we did.

Though he considered the food very enjoyable, what particularly impressed old Tom about the place was that they were so good about it when he spilled his soup all over the immaculate tablecloth.

His mam, all those years ago, would probably have skelped his backside and sent him to bed with a flea in his beer. At home in Shildon, we'd have had to eat off the News of the World until washing day.

Valentine's is in Barnard Castle, formerly a cosy little caf but steered up-market last autumn by Mark Sutherland and Simon Norman - one who had sandwich shops in Guisborough and Darlington, the other an accountant. Both books and butties were no doubt perfectly balanced.

Around Barney, of course, the up-market is quite crowded. The Valentine's boys are confident they can hold their corner.

The place is swish, a confidently class act, the reception area so comfortable that we contemplated asking for a couple of trays and eating as if Coronation Street were on.

The napiery was pristine - must have been a different table from Tom - though it wasn't to remain that way for long.

It is one of the sacrifices which this column makes for its readers that instead of always starting with mushroom soup - or carrot and coriander, on an adventurous day - we try to get off on a different foot.

Thus with the prawns, fried with garlic and parsley and served in the vast quantities which characterise everything about the place, with well dressed green and potato salad.

Doubtless there are those who peel a prawn as effortlessly as a monkey undoes a banana, but the column is not among them. If God had meant prawns to be peeled he'd have fitted them with zips, and if God had approved of finger bowls he'd never have made Pontius Pilate. The resultant detritus - another fine mess, as old Ollie used to say - may have made Tom Dobbin's soup run seem like barely a blot on his escutcheon; the staff, once again, took it cleanly in their stride.

Similarly with the wild mushroom risotto, served with splendidly imaginative vegetables like baked fennel, mashed celeriac and rosemary roast potatoes. Not that we made too much of a pig's ear of that - if a pig's ear may be made of a vegetarian dish - but why eat wild mushroom risotto, or any risotto ever invented, when there is (say) lamb cutlets with a potato rosti, black pudding and a thyme and red wine sauce?

Why eat rice when there are chips, and when British farmers are starving?

It is yet another service to readers, in this case the ten per cent who are reckoned non-meat eaters, but half way through it proved far too much of a goodish thing.

Other substantial starters, many offered as light lunches, included goats' cheese tartlet with pesto oil and a mango salsa, carpaccio of beef fillet rolled in crushed peppercorns and with a Stilton and red onion salsa and salmon fishcakes with spring onions, ginger and lemon grass with a tomato concasse and chive creme fraiche. The lady thought them tremendous and hardly made a crumb.

She followed, the Dover sole having been caught wanting, with penne pasta and artichokes with tomato, basil and mozzarella and toasted pine nuts. "Jolly good," she said.

Everything was attractively presented, efficiently served. The service may best be described as unobtrusive, since no one asked if we'd enjoyed it, had a nice day or as the column's old mother used to say... Well, you can probably imagine what the column's old mother used to say.

It is a trend of which we approve, far better than specious rituals of false courtesy, though barely a wasted word had been spoken until we employed the time-honoured tactic of asking the Arsenal score. Mark clearly knew as much about football as we do about peeling prawns, but remembered that they had Teletext upstairs and went to find out. Full marks, 1-0.

The puddings are tremendous, concoctions like honey mousse topped with almond praline and white chocolate shavings or brandy snap basket filled with a trio of ice creams, each accompanied by a pear cooked in red wine and other enticing ancillaries.

By the end, the Teletext having gone on the blinketty-blink, Simon - unprompted - was phoning a friend to find the final score from Highbury.

"Lyon has scored a last minute equaliser," he said, and no matter that he appeared to think Leon was that plummy-voiced former home secretary - or someone of the same forename - it was a commendable effort.

The coffee had been very good, too. Valentine's day, after all.

* Valentine's restaurant, 11 Galgate, Barnard Castle, Co Durham (01833) 637146. Open Tuesday-Saturday, lunchtime and evening, with terrace garden at the back. Lunch courses from about £5, three course dinner for two, without wine, between £40-£50.

SO silkily synchronised that the chap was unlocking the doors as we approached them, the Breakfast Club met at BHS, nee British Home Stores, in Durham.

British Home Stores, said The Boss, was famous for its hats and its lighting; BHS does a remarkably good value breakfast - six items £1.60, eight plus toast £1.95, a free Mirror for those in reflective mood and no charge, either, for serene views across the city.

"It's not often you see a coxed four," said Mr Macourt, as the sun rippled across the river.

The Reverend Gentleman appeared to have had trouble getting out of bed. An annual martyr to Pre-Lenten Tension, contented himself with a joke about an Eskimo, a seal and a Toyota Land Cruiser which may not possibly be repeated, though he was sans clerical collar at the time.

The other good thing about a BHS breakfast (Prince Bishops Centre, 9-11am) is that chips are among the "items", a first after all these years.

They'd made a bit of a hash of the browns, there was a scramble to avoid the eggs but the rest was pretty much spot on - good smoky bacon, excellent fried bread, smiling service. Coffee is 92p, a pot of tea 88p.

Even the Reverend Gentleman's PLT was eased, the rest of us vicariously relieved. A treat in store, definitely.

CLEVELAND CAMRA's first beer festival at the Arc Centre in Stockton was clouded by news that the Black Dog Brewery - near the cliff tops in Whitby - has gone over the edge. It ceased its production last week.

A successor to Whitby's Own Brewery, they of Whitby Wobble, Black Dog produced highly regarded ales like Rhatas, not an attempted vulgarity - well, maybe it was - but also an anagram of John Hartas, the owner.

Black Dog, alas, has been swimming against the tide of big brewery competition. "It's very sad news for us," said Eric Smallwood of CAMRA, and cried into a half of Radgie Gadgie instead.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a winkle that's got protection from the mob.

A gangster's mollusc.

Published: Tuesday, February 27, 2001