Don't let the rustic name fool you, this is one classy dining spot, with prices to match.

You would think there would be enough to look at in here. What with the girl clacking all the way across the shiny floor then doing a cartoon slip straight out the Beano complete with rapidly spinning legs.

Then the waiter rushing to the front door and brushing one of those little tables in the way a bull brushes a china shop. And shouting "sorry" a la Mr Fawlty.

The whole thing deliciously playing out to the soundtrack of The Stylistics singing "I can't give you anything...">

Me? I'm trying to pretend I'm just an ordinary guy, a middle-aged chubster, with slightly indiscreet nose - trying to blend into the fashionable battleship grey decor.

It's not working. Why? Well, you try going alone into a small, sweet cafe with tiny tables and murmuring diners and get away with ordering two main courses without anyone noticing.

The two ladies at the table next to me, whose conversation about Maurice and the referendum I've been earwigging while wondering if their accents are BBC or Edinburgh, stop dead in their chat when my mains turn up.

I look over. "If I had money I'd go wild..." The Stylistics sing as I stare straight ahead and pretend there is absolutely nothing abnormal about ordering a roast chicken breast with French beans, crushed potatoes, mushroom and Madeira sauce and an 8oz flat iron Scottish steak with all the trimmings.

Stood up? Sad remembrance meal? Or simply fat bloater? I bet that's what they're saying right now.

Course, I'm only going to nibble to get a feel for the food. And to be fair the waiting staff didn't flinch when I ordered, although as the last few minutes in here have been like a Buster Keaton movie, who would blame them?

Incidentally, I ordered this steak by mistake having misread the menu - I misread everything these days if I forget my glasses - and thought it was £10.50.

That was actually the price for the Angus steak burger, not the steak. Crikey. In a cafe? No wonder restaurant owners are twitching nervously at the rise and rise of these places with low overheads and a do-it-all approach to what they serve, and what they charge.

This is a bar and sandwich shop too, yet it's comfortable, chic and relaxed and flooded with light from those picture windows. And there's the good music. "I can't promise you the world...," as they clearly wouldn't say.

The steak turns out to be a mighty slab, hewn from the side of a cow, tender, charred and served with chips in a tin - a la mode - roasted tomatoes and bearnaise sauce. I suddenly realise I've finished all of it.

That supreme of chicken still sits cooling at the empty place opposite me while the guys at the table over there swivel their heads and I fancy they're wondering whether someone else is going to turn up or whether I am just a starving hobo who will leg it without paying. Answers on a postcard to Russell Thompkins Jr.

Had the chicken not been very moist and perfectly cooked, the skin crisp, the green beans and the Madeira and mushroom sauce fabulously sweet, it would have been an ordinary dish. But they were.

OK, the potatoes weren't the best - agricultural presentation even - but really it's been rather good I mutter to myself by way of excuse as I finish it off.

And then dessert. Even The Stylistics stop singing when the waitress comes back and asks if I want one. Or two. Ah. I can feel the whole room watching. Sadly, it's not the most exciting choice, comprising ice cream with coffee; brownie; meringue; ice cream again and more ice cream.

You wouldn't get away with that in a restaurant.

Of course I did have that starter. A rather pleasant plateful of crisp fried halloumi sticks with salad, spring onion and a very powerful, too powerful perhaps, chilli and lime pickle.

As I leave, the ladies lean over and ask: "Are you a restaurant critic?" Damn.