As I exited Crouch Hill overground station on a brisk February evening, I was struck by the change in altitude this far north of Finsbury Park. Was I imagining it or did the air actually feel a bit thinner? It certainly felt cleaner. The uphill trudge from station to bistro door really got my gastric juices flowing – and left me an eager 15 minutes early for my table. No matter, I thought. I can slip in and quietly nurse a glass of wine until my friend arrives. No such luck.

‘AH, HERE IS CATIE EVERYONE.’ Announced a man wearing a beret, skinny scarf and striped cycling t-shirt upon my arrival. ‘AND SHE IS 12 MINUTES EARLY… ARE YOU DESPERATE OR ARE YOU COLD, MADEMOISELLE?’

I was both – and now a little embarrassed, a lot amused and completely transported to the comic chaos of a regional French bistro. Imagine equal parts unexpected family holiday discovery, Rick Stein’s Secret France and Gordon Ramsay’s ‘The F-Word’ circa 2005 and you’re on the right track. From the heavy curtain and laminated menus to the chintzy crockery, lilting accordion soundtrack and petite, insouciant waitress, it was all impeccably authentic and possibly the closest you can get to France without having to flash your passport. Gastronomically, it exceeds rather than delivers, with a strong roster of Gallic favourites alongside a specials menu that proudly chalks-up the interesting and the seasonal – hardly surprising when you consider the back catalogue of founders Robert Reid and Jean-Christophe Slowik, which ranges from The Oak Room under Marco Pierre White to Keith McNally’s London outpost of Balthazar. Put simply – there’s nothing these two garçons don’t know about hospitality.

From escargot drenched in a garlic parsley butter that we mopped up with the crustiest baguette I’ve had inside the M25, to a soul-nourishing dish of confit duck atop a white bean cassoulet that tasted as though it had been bubbling away on a Pyrenean fire all week, every dish brought comfort, joy and delight. Robert’s constant parade of whole, flaming tarte-tatins direct from stovetop to table certainly added a je ne sais quoi to the pudding end of the evening – although if you can resist the theatre, order the apricot glazed baba au rhum for three mouthfuls I can only describe as ‘ambrosial’.

Fast forward to 2024 and things are a little sharper. Their new site on Middle Lane feels a touch more cosmopolitan; the room is bigger, the decor is smarter, the wine list is expansive, and the menu is more refined – yet somehow, more delicious – with scallops swimming in a sexy orange butter and salads crowned with crystallised walnuts nestled amongst the old favourites. It feels warm and convivial and a little more grown-up – though I suspect (and hope) that the barrage of well-meaning banter for the early/cold/desperate regulars remains.