The Harwood Arms - Fulham, Saturday 18th December, 2010

Christmas season on crutches (last moan about these, I promise) was a bit of a struggle. Particularly when the snow hit London. At first it wasn't too bad because we had proper, thick and blankety snow. The kind of stuff that you always wished for when you were a child but when it comes along now still makes you want to hurl frozen water at any moving target. As such, I could manoeuvre without too much trouble because the pavements had some give in them, so thick was the snowfall.

Towards the end of December, it would melt by day then freeze by night, giving Londoners a myriad of packed, frozen ice to contend with. Crutches tended to be both a hindrance and a blessing: I was uneasy on my feet but I had a couple of walking sticks to steady me.

Right about this time, one typically frosty and biting December night, there was enough snow left on the cars and walls to have a snowball fight but the pavements were proving mildly treacherous. The other half decided it was a perfect night to buy a Christmas tree for our flat. I was less than enthusiastic but, as ever, my opinion counted for little as we trudged, slipped and grappled our way to an outdoor tree dealer.

Buying a proper Christmas tree (and believe me, as anti-tradition as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way) is a bit of a pain, especially as you spend ages poring over the details of a piece of nature that will inevitably start shedding needles all over your front room within a few weeks' time then paying massively over the odds for it. The solution..? Grow your own and keep it. Let's move on.

Getting the tree home was a trifle difficult, since I was an invalid but I'm usually the one who does the donkey work. Rather impressively, the other half developed the idea of tying the bound tree to our little wheeled shopping trolley - the kind old people wheeled around at the end of the twentieth century - and merrily towed the thing home. Would you believe it, the idea worked and we suddenly had a Christmas tree at home. And all in time to go to an early dinner at a nearby Michelin-starred pub. Not bad for a Saturday afternoon's work in the snow.

The other half is not from London, or even from England. She is still enraptured by the snow as if she were five years old. Far from being irritating, I find it endearing, as I tend to with the attitudes of most people who remind me of my childhood. So, in a real blast from the past, she decided to lob a few snowballs in my direction. Endearment gave way to mild annoyance and after wearing a few, I insisted on a free hit. I duly lined up from ten paces and hit her flush in the cheek. It was mostly unintentional and we were noticeably, pointedly silent as we entered the Harwood Arms minutes later.

The Harwood Arms is a classy place. Mainly because of the personnel behind its inception. Brett Graham, head chef at The Ledbury, Mike Robinson, the man behind the Pot Kiln and a man named Edwin Vaux, from a brewery of the same name are the backers, and they have created something fairly special. It's not a simple business, getting a Michelin star in London. And it's even harder if you're a pub. For a long time, the two factors combined would have prohibited the place from getting any kind of recognition as a contender but times have changed.

In a moment of poetic justice, the other half burnt her hair in much the same way as I had earlier that year at Foxtrot Oscar. I say that because she had laughed mercilessly at the time and at regular intervals since. Well, the joke was on her this time. We began with some rather lovely bread and butter. The former was warm, comforting and strong and the latter soft, salty and smooth.

The two starters we ate here were spectacular. They were always going to be, right from the moment my rabbit and prune faggots were put in front of me (left). Served with turnip purée and mushrooms. At £6.50. The only thing that could possibly be wrong with this dish was the taste. And, no, nothing was wrong there either. Conceptually and practically perfect. Warm, punchy, gamy flavours soaked in proper English gravy. Not a jus or a reduction, real thick-but-not-too-thick sauce which makes you feel proud to be British. Gravy can do such a thing, apparently.

The funny thing was, this wasn't necessarily the best starter on the table. The oyster fritters on the other side were possibly even better. That's right: fresh, in-season Maldon oysters which had been shucked from the shell and dunked in batter (right). But not as crude as that: these were light batter coatings, only strong enough to let you know they were there. I'm sure there are purists amongst you that will baulk at the idea of battering oysters, but let me assure you that these were probably the best I have ever eaten.

Main courses were not expected to soar at the same peaks as starters, and so it proved, as often it does... We tried some lamb which sounded like it was going to knock our socks off. Braised shoulder with purple sprouting broccoli, rosemary broth, crispy haggis and green sauce (even though I don't honestly know what goes into a green sauce) should have been outstanding. In the event it was a case of style over substance. Or ideas over style over substance (left). The lamb was too dry and cloying, the rosemary broth was the poor cousin of whatever the faggots were served in and the broccoli was undercooked. I don't know why haggis was part of the dish; it merely served to further shunt the lamb into irrelevance. I think green sauce is also known as mint sauce.

Luckily for us, they pulled it back with the second main. Roast wild mallard with black pudding, creamed kale tart and artichokes was just a bouquet for all the senses (right). When one sees something such as a kale tart on the menu, one expects a side dish of piffling insignificance, dry and crumbly, which fills one up too much to enjoy the meat. In this case, the tart was the centrepiece of the dish, with the roast mallard sitting atop the flaky pastry in a glorious mix of tangy, deep red game and the sensible greenery of the kale, which had indeed been creamed to complement the duck perfectly.

Dessert, at this point, was academic. Only a disaster of titanic proportions could derail this evening's food. Fortunately, we were treated once more with Fulham's finest. The other half had the preposterously impressive earl grey tea ice cream with a side of vanilla doughnuts (left). Confident, cosy and, somehow, English. The ice cream was slightly bitter for me, being that it was tea-flavoured, but the doughnuts were warm, soft and totally fitting for the event, the venue and the dish. Mixing both components, along with the prunes in the ice cream bowl and the splodge of lemon curd on the side, made for fine pudding.

I went for the buttermilk pudding with poached pear and berry sorbet (right). It wasn't quite up to the other half's dessert' but it was rather good. Even though it was slightly on the sour side, the pudding was deliciously smooth and acted as a great pairing with the sharper poached pear. It looked rather nifty too.

The Harwood Arms deserves all the plaudits it gets: the star, the clientèle, the good reviews; everything. It's perfectly conceived in its aims and ideas. Do the simple things well (aside from that lamb) and all will fall into place. In the modern culinary climate of supremely cliched ideas on seasonal, local, British, traditional and various other words too widespread to bring up, this place has got it all. In a good way. It might be just a pub but the food is amazing.

On the way home I had no choice but to atone for my earlier dead-eye accuracy with the snowball, in case you're wondering. We got home red-faced and drenched in snow. Absolutely a good evening's work, despite the crutches.

The Harwood Arms