Blacklock

Blacklock's entrance is undistinguished, but the stairs lead to a loud, busy and cram-packed Soho basement with a personality all its own. Drinks took 20 minutes to arrive, though the staff signed their apologies and the room was too convivial to stay cross for long. Pre-chop bites of cheese and pickle, duck rillette with apple and egg with anchovy on crackers set the table up well; the egg and anchovy was the favourite, savoury without becoming too fishy. This is not polished dining, and it does not pretend to be.

The five All Ins are a mountain of chops, but the best thing is underneath: wonderfully charcoaled flatbread soaked in all the meat's dripping juices. A heart attack had never tasted so good. Exceptional chips and chilli hollandaise add their own argument, while a strawberry salad brings a little relief. The big manly pieces — a 1kg pork tomahawk, 1.2kg beef porterhouse and 600g lamb Barnsley — are all devoured. The one bugbear is that everything arrived medium-rare without anyone asking, a choice that will not suit every table.

Cocktail roulette sends ten drinks around the table, including a coffee cocktail somewhere between an Irish coffee and Christmas pudding, and a complimentary white rum keeps the evening moving. There is only one dessert, homemade white-chocolate cheesecake; two were ordered, and five people enjoyed them. Blacklock is a complete hit because it understands the value of excess, noise and food with a clear physical pleasure. Some parts are so good they stand out long in the memory. The basement may be chaotic, but the chops know exactly what they are doing.