Eating Owt

Thank God! The British journalist

But, seeing what the man will do

Unbribed, there's no occasion to.

Humbert Wolfe (1886-1940)

THE curious thing about Mr Wolfe - big, bad or otherwise - is that he seems never to have written another line that posterity considered worth pickling.

Born in Milan of German-Jewish parents he settled in Bradford but worked in Whitehall. That he was awarded the CBE may have had more to do with services to Board of Trade than bardic trade.

His epigram remains valid, nonetheless. These days it's not called bribery and corruption, however, it's called public relations.

Mark Herd left a voice-mail message inviting the column to the "VIP" launch of his company's latest venture, Tavistock on the Square in Bishop Auckland. After the event, we rang back.

Originally they'd had a well regarded restaurant called 11 Tavistock Square in Sunderland. Though it was sold, Tavistock stuck. There are two others on Wearside.

Mr Herd had done his homework, apologised for the absence of real ale, said he'd specially ordered half a dozen bottles of Bishops Finger from the Shepherd Neame brewery in Kent.

Though it's not cask conditioned, Bishops Finger pointed towards good intentions, nonetheless.

TOTS (to which it may never again be abbreviated) occupies the former Barclays Bank in the Market Place. It has been very handsomely converted; someone's had a swish list.

The ground floor, retaining some of the elegance of the Barclays bankers, is described as an "Over 21s style bar." We qualified on at least one count.

Upstairs is Tavistock Italia, lined floor to ceiling with autographed photographs of celluloid film stars like Mae West, Alice Faye and Googie Withers as she never looked in Within These Walls.

We went last Wednesday evening, unannounced and hopefully incognito. Asking for the Bishops Finger, The Boss supposed, would be like some secret code in a James Bond film.

It was asked for, anyway, the cheery barman, in turn, asking if a glass were required. The last time I drank from the bottle, it had a dum-tit on the end.

Jonathan Bowmer, the highly personable young manager, appeared moments later. "Good evening, Mr Amos," he said. Jonathan used to run Shafto's public house outside Spennymoor: cover blown like a B-movie barrage balloon.

For a Wednesday, it was remarkably busy, numbers in the restaurant boosted by two female parties. One was of young ladies in various stages of undress, a lot of front needed to wear frocks with so little back. Several also wore thongs, though not necessarily of praise.

The other party was rather more mature, Masonic ladies on a night out because the menfolk had hugger-muggered off elsewhere for an evening of esoterica. They were very pleasant, not a bare back in sight.

Tavistock aims to cater for all age groups: the music's low, seating sensible - upstairs, anyway - the atmosphere positively vibrant. There were 33 diners, of whom 30 were female. It was a decent ratio.

A waitress also had a bare midriff and a stud beneath her lower lip. Fortunately the waiters wore shirts and ties, the only studs (it was to be hoped) in their Stanley Matthews football boots.

The menu is lengthy, through pizza and pasta to nine or ten fish dishes - seared leg of tuna, whole sea bream with cayenne pepper and Pernod and things - and a dozen steak and chicken dishes.

Most of the kitchen brigade are Filipino - "a lot less arrogant than English chefs," said Jonathan.

The food, in all honesty - hearts crossed, not palms - may need a little bedding in. If the Rossini fillet were medium rare than I'm a collectors' item; if it was much longer worth rolling out the "Barolo sauce" then I'd be surprised; if the bread were acceptable then I'm Mr Bunn the Baker.

The melon and Parma ham starter was fine, well presented like everything else. The vegetables were simple, unadulterated, medium rare.

The meal finished with lemon and ginger something or other, a pyramid built with very good biscuits and a creamy concoction. "How's the lemon and ginger?" asked The Boss, interrupting a short reverie.

Lemon and ginger, oh that's what it was.

As ever, she preferred to swim with the fish courses: smoked salmon salad followed by cod wrapped in Parma ham with a champagne butter sauce. They were faultless.

At the end, having completed an important test by finding out the Arsenal score, Jonathan insisted that the meal was on him. Remembering Humbert think, we insisted that it wasn't - it being easy to be hairshirted, of course, when spending the company's money.

The bill came to coppers over £60. Since they'd overcharged by the price of a pint of Bishops Finger, we sent it back. Sheep in Wolfe's clothing, some folk would twist on 21.

* Tavistock on the Square, Market Place, Bishop Auckland (01388 451155). Restaurant open 5-11pm Tuesday to Friday and all day Saturday, bar from 4pm and all day Saturday and Sunday. Restaurant happy hour 5-7pm, Saturday 5-6pm.

www.northeastfood.co.uk