LIKE the rat, say, this column is naturally gregarious. Just occasionally, however, pressure of time and space - in which the hymn reminds us we are dwellers all - dictates a table for one. Thus last Thursday lunchtime, armed with that day's Echo, the Durham diocesan newspaper, two Sunderland football fanzines and The Publican, we strolled through Darlington to the new Joe Rigatonis in the Imperial Centre.

Another voice in the wilderness, a chap with a well travelled rucksack had turned the Market Cross into a wayside pulpit, loudly and contentiously proclaiming that had God not loved us he'd have long since blasted the earth from his cosmic masterplan.

Were he still there after lunch, we decided, he could form a singular At Your Service column. For then, as Miss Greta Garbo observed, we just wanted to be alone.

Joe Rigatoni may once have been something in Chicago, but never in North-East England. The first restaurant in his name was opened in Hartlepool six years ago by Paulo Arceri - born in England of Sardinian parents - followed by Middlesbrough and now Darlington, where the building has seen several similar incarnations. He plans a new restaurant every year.

"I wanted a name that people could pronounce," says Paulo. Now everyone thinks he's Joe, anyway.

It was 1.30pm and the place still well filled, though the last one seemed well patronised and closed suddenly. This one will fare rather better. There was a table for two, that is to say one and rather a lot of reading matter. They even brought a clean cloth, a paper thing with a company logo, torn from a huge roll. In long gone childhood we only ever ate from paper tablecloths on Mondays, when the proper one was being possed about. It would be nice to say that it was the dual purpose Northern Echo but probably (the shame of it) it was the previous day's News of the World.

Monday lunch was always one of Edgar Robinson's pork pies, fresh made for sixpence and carried upright from school so as not to spill the jelly, followed by wondrous home-made rice pudding and a fight to scrape out the tin.

Rigatonis menu makes interesting reading, too, a spiral backed and attractively pictorial affair in which the central figure resembles a cross between Bernard Manning and the immortal Duane Doberman.

The "express menu", available 12-3pm, includes soup of the day - broccoli and blue cheese, £2.95 - home-made burger (£4.95), tomato and mozzarella foccaccio bread (£5.95) and bangers and mash (£6.95). Until five o'clock there are sandwiches, £3.65, too.

We began elsewhere with the antipasto and the Durham diocesan news. They've a lunchtime discussion group called Claret and Chips, which probably says quite a lot about the Church of England.

The antipasto (£4.95) was fine and ample - "classic" Italian meats, olives, roasted vegetables, provelone cheese. The bread had seen better days. The staff were efficient and enthusiastic, so swift they almost broke into a run. The music, unobtrusive, appeared to be Melanie, though not Alexander Beetle. Thereafter the menu sub-divided into the familiar three Ps - pizza, pasta, polli - with steaks and one or two other things (oriental duck, rack of lamb) thereafter and a few specials on the board. One of the fanzine adverts was headed "Not all estate agents are SCUM". It's amazing what you can learn when feeding without chewing the fat.

Penne con Salsaccia was described as "short cut pasta", though someone had taken enough care with it - cooked with a tasty but slightly laborious Italian sausage, garlic, plum tomatoes, pesto and peas. The Publican reckoned that the trade is trying to accommodate the anti-smoking lobby, a last gasp, if ever. Anglo-Italian afters, all £3.50, might be sticky pudding or tirimisu, knickerbocker glory or pannacotta, a creamy confection with assorted berries.

With two Cokes and a coffee it amounted to £16.10 and to 90 minutes of peace. The Market Cross missionary had gone, however, maybe to seek the end of the world. Since it was all pleasant, therefore, it's no offence to old Joe to suggest that next week's column may be in even better company.

l Joe Rigatonis, Imperial Centre, Darlington. Open seven days, with happy hours and children's portions. Seven steps to main entrance.

THE Breakfast Club, altogether more sociable, gathered on Friday morning at Mr George Bolam's emporium in Sedgefield.

George was a small town butcher who decided to open a sort of one stop chop - abattoir out the back, self-service restaurant and retail outlet up front.

"The Best of British" says the slogan, union jack on his vans and heart on his sleeve.

We've written previously of the huge dimensions and remarkable value of his no frills lunches - roasts £2.75, including pudding and custard. "Breakfast in a bun" is £1.20, all day breakfast £2.15 - great mounds of rather lukewarm bacon, delicious sausage, two eggs, beans, mushrooms, black pudding and a couple of slices of bread,

It is written, of course, that man shall not live by bread alone. The clerical member wasn't alone in wishing there'd been toast and marmalade. There isn't.

"Breakfast" is officially 8.30-11.30am, lunch thereafter, smoking forbidden. Whilst access is ramped, the floor can be very slippery and the fixed furniture isn't for the inagile. Eat well, tread carefully.

LAST week's piece on TGI Friday's on Teesside Park - good food, unrelenting "atmosphere" - provoked some weekend reaction. "I will say this, you'll try anything once," wrote Chris Greenwell, from Newton Aycliffe.

He'd been once, but never again, to Friday's in Leeds. "Lively is a term which barely describes the noise level. I had the impression that I'd been accepted for processing rather than shown to a table. On reflection, I'd rather eat my knees."

Ray Simpson in Shildon had been to TGI Friday's in Naples, Florida, paid a total £35 for starter, main course and freely refilled drinks for four, recommends the chicken fajitas with tortillas and salad. "One of my pals has been to both Teesside and Florida, reckons the UK isn't a patch," adds Ray. He also offers a long range forecast for the Rainforest Caf, another US import already at the Trafford Centre in Manchester. "There are animatronic animals all over the place and thunderstorms every 15 minutes." Just like being at home.

ACCOMPANIED by nothing more than two question marks and an exclamation, John Wiggins in Skelton Green, East Cleveland, sends this fascinating advertisement for Mercer's Meat Stout. We rang him. It was made by Dutton's, he fancies, a Lancashire brewery which before being swallowed by Whitbread made ales specially for Cleveland's sweated labour force. "Glorious stuff," muses John, wistfully, and wonders if anyone remembers more of it. But meat stout? We'd heard of stuff being meat and drink, but simultaneously? More meat on the bone greatly welcomed.

....and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what sort of dog you'd find in a vegetable patch.

A Jack Brussel.