Spain has always been the place where you would have a siesta in the afternoon, eat late and then dance the night away. But now, a once-sacred custom is being abandoned

It's dark in Alicante's Teatre club, the music is loud and the air conditioning is on at full blast. Stepping outside to join the people using the excuse of their nicotine addiction to escape the racket, though, the brightness of the sun hits you like a welcome slap. It's 5.30pm, still almost 30C in the shade and there are tourists walking past in swimming costumes.

What has happened to the Spanish social timetable? This is the country where they famously take a siesta in the afternoons, eat late, go out drinking after midnight and dance until well beyond dawn. In Alicante and certain other Spanish towns, though, things are changing. The traditional Saturday night out now often takes place on Saturday afternoon. They call it el tardeo,a portmanteau of tarde– afternoon – and tapeo to go for tapas.

I started my "night out" at just before 2pm at a terrace bar, La Rotonda, behind the modernist arch of the city´s Mercado Central. Most people aren't eating yet but the waiters are still practically running to keep up with the demand for trays of cañas, small glasses of beer, from the dozens of tables. My next stop is a nearby cafe called Damasol, for another caña and then a bowl of tangy salpicón de pulpo (octopus in a kind of vinaigrette), followed by a firm chunk of bacalao, salt cod, topped with tomato. At about 4pm the meal is finished off with a "gintonic" on Calle Castaños, a street almost entirely made up of terrace bars, with barely a table vacant. After that, the choice can only be a club such as Teatre or its unfortunately named rival, the Clap. For people who actually like the music they play in clubs, it's then time to dance, before going to bed at around 11pm.

This was all given the official seal of approval in the summer, with a promotional video produced by the town hall, complete with a video soundtrack from a local indie band. On YouTube, inevitably, you can read indignant comments from residents of Murcia and Albacete insisting that they've had their own version of el tardeo for years. In fact, it's not any kind of official, town-hall-directed phenomenon. According to Manu Garrote, one of the members of Gimnástica, the band on the promo video, it was just a realisation by older twentysomethings that they probably shouldn't be dancing till 8am. Gradually, both older and younger people started to join them until now, unlike many Spanish towns, Alicante is livelier at 4.30pm on a Saturday than it is at 4.30am.

This is a startling transformation for anyone who is used to sleepy afternoons in Spain. Changes such as this always seem like a big deal because of how closely the social timetable is linked to national identity. Just look at the furore about the liberalisation of licensing laws in the UK. Those changes, which often amounted to little more than some pubs closing at 12am instead of 11pm, have been cited either as our adoption of sophisticated, continental drinking patterns, or as contributory factors in "broken Britain".

Arguably, though, the hour at which you eat is a stronger social signifier. In the UK, insisting on having a full meal called "supper" at 8pm will still mark you out as irredeemably posh. And it's noticeable that, underneath the superficial changes to the Alicante timetable, you'll find a reassuring structure - they're still eating between two and four. Lunch is still the backbone of Spanish society and that's as true in San Sebastian and Barcelona as it is in Madrid or Alicante.

In the UK, in contrast, we try to ignore lunch and order our evening meal according to social class: first tea, then dinner, then supper. Would we be happier if we all sat down for a big meal in the middle of the day? Maybe so. In Spain, dancing at 5pm may be possible but, as Manu Garrote puts it: "Gastronomy never changes its timetable. Lunch is sacred."

'Pizza abominations are flying out of the kitchen but, hey, the place has a banging DJ'

Heeeey, isn't this cool? Just look at the size of it: a bare-bricked football pitch, crammed with Manchester's glammed-up party crowd. There are paparazzi outside; one confides mournfully, "We've got a tipoff that Towie or Geordie Shore are coming down, but I don't know what they look like." And, to be fair, the beautiful people in here could easily grace a TV reality show.

And check out the crazy art: floor projections and funky oils; wire men dangling off the outside wall; and there's a door on the vestibule wall etched with a wrinkled visage. "Is it Lord Suralan Sugar?" I ask. "No," says the cheery receptionist, "it's Ewan McGregor."

It's a long time since I've seen a menu this lengthy– there must be more than 60 different dishes, from fancy cuisine to comfort food. If there isn't something on it to float your boat, you must be a right old codger. Talk about variety.

Nope, I can't keep this up. I want so much to like Artisan. But, with the exception of the sparky service – especially from tiny Jennifer – I simply cannot. It feels like a factory, a processing plant for poseurs who care more about being seen than what's on their plates. (Not that you can be seen: the entire United team could be at the other end of this immense, raucous space and I'd be none the wiser.) And that food is impressively bad, too. There's the pizza slathered with a bbq sauce that tastes like boiled-up Fisherman's Friends, capped with shrivelled, biltong-textured "pulled pork" and shavings of pineapple. Its base is thin, cracker-crisp and scorched, like an overgrown water biscuit. The "Lyonnaise" salad that looks generous for its £10.95 price tag turns out to be volumes of flouncy lettuce caching waterlogged, unpeeled spuds, elderly croutons, a smattering of bacon and oikish garlic sausage. Worst of all is what's called a "cassoulet". Is it buggery: it's an unconnected group of ingredients, introduced via the medium of tinned tomato and butter beans. The belly pork is tasteless; the duck less confit, more Kentucky fried quacker.

Actually, I lie. It's not all terrible. Queenie scallops suffer from brackish "curry butter" and grouty cauliflower puree, but they're bearable. And there's a decent retro Arctic roll as a finale. Whoop-de-doo.

Oh, sure, with my poncey restaurant critic ways, I'm not the target audience. I'm not keen on being recorded for posterity in the photo-booth or hanging out in the steam-punky bar or over-designed ladies' loos (the "Bitching Room"; yuck and thrice yuck). But aiming a restaurant at the yoof party crowd shouldn't preclude edible food. It can be done: I'm happy to steer my snobby bahookie into Rotary, Byron, Bunga Bunga or SoLita; and Pizza East, in whose industrial-chic environs I bet Artisan's management has taken copious notes, does this kind of thing beautifully, complete with sourdough pizza that actually bends in the middle.

Did I look for trouble by ordering that particular pizza? Maybe. Perhaps I should have had the doner kebab one. Or "smoked salmon in a can". Or the mackerel nailed and baked on a pine plank like a supporting actor in Saw XI. Or the gammon, fried egg and frozen McCain crinkle chips at £12.95.

Artisan is owned by Living Ventures, who have sprawled their brand all over the glittery Spinningfields complex. They're capable of better than this: their Australasia raised the game for Manc city-centre dining, and they're backing the forthcoming Manchester House with lauded chef Aiden Byrne. But, hey, Artisan has got a, er, banging DJ, it's pretty much filled nightly and those pizza abominations are flying out of the kitchen. They should give a monkey's.

And that door art? It isn't Ewan McGregor; I finally figure out it's Ian McKellen. Like so much else here, from the menu to the email saying, "We'll require this table back at 21.00", they just got it all a bit wrong.

• Artisan Avenue North, 18-22 Bridge Street, Manchester, 0161 832 4181. Open all week, noon-midnight (1am Thurs, 2am Fri & Sat, 11pm Sun). About £30 a head, plus drinks and service.

Food 2/10
Atmosphere Febrile
Value for money 3/10

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Arctic diver Roddie Sloan was about to abandon his beloved urchins to study engineering, but then he got a call that would change his life...

"Our urchin diver is a Scotsman who came to Norway for the love of a woman, and stayed for the cold, pristine waters of his new region of Steigen. If it lives in the north Atlantic and I want to cook it, Roddie will find it and it will arrive at Fäviken neatly arranged in a little box, whether it's edible or not."
Magnus Nilsson, chef, Fäviken, Sweden

A small icy open boat 300km inside the Arctic Circle: diver Pawel grins as he hands me a holy grail and for a second I forget the biting wind. The interior of the spiky sea urchin he is holding out is an astonishing tangerine like a Chinese lantern, bathed in low brilliant light. What I have in my hand is Stronglyocentrotus droebachiensis, the mythical Norwegian Green, talked about in hushed whispers by chefs. I lift out a delicate coral "tongue" – more accurately, its gonads – and let the umami flavours wash over me: the texture is of wobbly custard; the taste clean, like the smell of the Arctic sea, only sweeter. I close my eyes and quietly drift with the water. We have plenty of time and urchins while we wait for Roddie Sloan to reappear from the freezing sea.

Sloan had known this was a good day to fish, he says, because the sea eagle had told him. "Like most fishermen I have superstitions," he says. "If I don't see an eagle, I know it will be a bad day." And winter days here – if you can call barely four hours of dim light a day – can be very bad. He tells me of a five-hour battle through 4m waves to get his tiny boat the final kilometre home. Luckily, today the fjords are calm, the sun is shining and as we fill the boat with urchins and clams, Roddie Sloan and Pawel "The Fish" Laskowski are happy.

Just a few years ago, Sloan was ready to quit the sea. The millions he dreamed he'd make from diving had failed to materialise, unlike his second son (he now has three). Anxious about how to support his family, Sloan hung up his wetsuit to study engineering. But then came a phone call that would change his life. 

"I remember the day," he tells me later as I stoke the log fire in our borrowed white wooden house on a tiny island in the fjord. "It was a sunny Sunday, a beautiful autumn afternoon, Lindis [his wife] is making dinner while I am standing on the terrace. The phone rings. It's a chef wanting urchins but I tell him he is too late. It isn't fair to my wife any more, it is over.

"In my mind I already had autumn organised," he continues. "I was going to university. We spoke for about an hour, about sea urchins and other foods from the sea, but he was a two-star and I had been supplying Le Louis XV [Alain Ducasse's three-Michelin-star palace in Monaco]. I was polite but I wasn't interested.

"When we had finished, Lindis asked who it was," he says. "Some Danish chef, I told her, calling from Nimrod or Nana, I don't care. I am going back to school."

It was, of course, René Redzepi from Noma.

Under pressure from Lindis – a super-smart Norwegian gender specialist and government adviser – Sloan succumbed but tripled his price: "If you don't want to do something, you hike the cost," he says. "But I didn't want Lindis to be angry."

It was a fragile start to a life-changing friendship. "With René," he says, "the price doesn't much matter, it is about the product. This was an extremely new experience for me." But Sloan was intent on leaving the sea. "I still wanted to study, so he was my only client."

A few weeks later, Redzepi turned up. "He was wearing trainers to go to sea," Sloan laughs. "He had a new hat, he had duty-free, but was in all the wrong clothes. We kitted him and took him out for four hours. The season was finished, it was minus 22. We talked about changing nappies, about family, philosophy and sea urchins.

"I realised I really like this guy," he says. "I am a loyal dog – once I have made up my mind, it takes a lot to get rid of me. I tell him we will change the price, he tells me he wants 50kg a week."

Next, he ate his green urchins at Noma: "It was a dish of 'frozen pebbles and sea urchins' – an amazing taste sensation, suddenly I saw what he saw." Sloan, a Scottish economic exile from Dumfries, transplanted to Nordskot, an Arctic hamlet of 80 people, had found another new home. "Noma has become 'my kitchen' in a way," he says. "I can drop in for tea, coffee, maybe curl up under a table."

Through Redzepi and his MAD [food] symposium in Copenhagen (Sloan was a reluctant but compelling speaker at the second event in 2012), he has found validation and a viable market with many of Europe's top chefs now clamouring to buy from him.

Fäviken's Magnus Nilsson again: "We met the first time in Copenhagen … I looked into a pair of glistening blue eyes and heard the words, 'I am Roddie the urchin diver, you are my closest chef [they're more than 600km apart by road], we need to work together.' We soon found a logistical solution that was manageable for us both in terms of money and quality, which involves a couple of ferries, a firm of removal men and a monthly bribe of a box of beer. The produce arrives every Tuesday at Fäviken and it includes the best sea urchins I have ever seen anywhere."

This season – late September to January – Sloan will also be supplying UK restaurants including St John. For now at least, wild talk of further education is on hold.

Ask Roddie Sloan about his relationship with his adopted community, the Arctic sea, and its produce, and his voice becomes quieter. We make tea and talk about Nordskot's oldest inhabitant, 81-year-old Finn Ediassen, who started fishing aged eight and taught Sloan "all I know about ropes and knots". He tells me how this community nestled at the foot of an austere mountain range at the top of the world had carved a precarious living fishing and whaling but now there was no work; how they had indulged his obsession with the urchins and clams they still only think of as bait. 

The fire crackles. The Arctic light dips. Sloan's eyes shine as tells me of his pride in how they have taken him in, recognising a kindred wild spirit bewitched by the sea.

But it is when he talks about being a warden for his beloved urchins that Sloan comes alive. The green is one of 700 species, 500m years old, he says. "The quality starts in the sea – how you pick it up with your hand, how many you have in the net. How you handle it, how you fish it.

"They have changed my life, these beautiful creatures," he says. "My mother doesn't understand it. For her, they are still something my Aunty Jean brought back from her holidays. But they have given me a community, friendships, food. They have given me a place, a proper life."

All the while, a few urchins shyly shift and move as we talk. As daylight finally fades, I watch entranced as they dance on spikes across the kitchen table. "They are very precious to me," Sloan says softly.

Later, I am sitting drinking smoky scotch when Roddie Sloan calls from his home in the village. "Look outside," he says, simply. "Northern lights." 

So I stand on the terrace of my Arctic explorer's island cottage and watch as the sea and sky come alive. I see electric greens shoot and pulse over the forbidding horizon as though orchestrated to an unheard symphony. I watch the sky and fjord turn the intense colour of limes and the stark icy mountains take on an unearthly mauve. And for the next three hours as I drink whisky and watch, I almost envy Roddie Sloan his hermit life, the few hours of daylight, the many hours spent diving in the icy water. But then I remember the forecast is for more storms, more snow and minus 15 and I shudder and return to the fire.

For more information, email arctic.caviar@gmail.com; Twitter: @Roddiesloan

Gourmets say rare meat tastes better as inspectors warn of potentially fatal virus in undercooked meat

Foodies have waded into the battle being waged against rare meat by championing the delights of "pink pork", which environmental health officers warn can contain a virus that causes potentially fatal liver failure.

The Chartered Institute for Environmental Health, which represents food inspectors, highlights a recent report for the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs which revealed that the number of human hepatitis E cases increased by 39% between 2011 and 2012. The report claimed that there was "increasing evidence" the rise was down to "food borne zoonoses" and referred to a study that found 10% of pork sausages on sale in the UK contained the virus.

"There is a general issue about cooking at low temperatures," said Jenny Morris, the institute's principal policy officer. "Food safety is ensured by the combination of the right time and temperature to kill the pathogens. Some research suggests that, to eliminate the risk of hepatitis E, food at its core needs to reach 70C for 20 minutes. If pork is served pink, it's unlikely to have reached that temperature at the centre."

But critics insist that pink pork tastes better and is not a health risk, providing certain guidelines are followed. Over the summer a pop-up restaurant run by the Ginger Pig company, the upmarket chain of butchers in London, served more than 2,000 people a ribeye cut of pork shoulder taken off the bone and served pink without incident. Nicola Swift, Ginger Pig's creative food director, said she would never recommend eating pork as rare as steak, but believed that "a little pinkness in larger roasting joints can make a world of difference to the succulence of the meat".

Swift said there was a noticeable trend for restaurants to serve their pork on the pink side. She pointed to the increasing number of Spanish-influenced restaurants, such as the José tapas bar and its sister restaurant Pizarro, both in Bermondsey, London, which have won rapturous reviews for serving a speciality, Ibérico pork, presented extremely rare.

José Pizarro, whose restaurant was voted best last year at both the Food and Travel Magazine Awards and the World Food Awards, said that when he first started out working in restaurants in London 14 years ago his employers thought he was mad for serving rare pork. "The trick on serving rare pork is the supplier," Pizarro said. "The Ibérico pork I serve at Pizarro and José is of seriously high quality and out of all my suppliers that one is the relationship I probably nurture the most. These pigs are reared on acorns and are thoroughly spoilt. The resulting meat is tender, soft, tasty. It is so different to that sort of leathery, chewy finish you can often get on a pork chop. It is my signature dish and my customers absolutely love it."

Concerns about undercooked pork stretch back to the foot and mouth crisis of 2001 which was triggered by pigs being fed on scraps containing animal products, including that from their own species. Feeding pigs on scraps was banned in the UK as a result of the crisis.

But Morris said the reputation of the supplier was still no guarantee that the meat was not carrying hepatitis E. An investigation by the Animal Health and Veterinary Laboratories Agency found hepatitis E in 49% of pigs in Scotland. The virus usually causes a mild illness but in some cases it can lead to acute liver failure, which can prove fatal, particularly for pregnant women.

The trend for pork to be be served pink intensified in 2011 when the US Department of Agriculture lowered the recommended minimum cooking temperature of pork by 15 degrees Fahrenheit.

Slow cooking meat "sous-vide", in vacuum packs in a water bath at a low temperature, has also been a factor in the increasing popularity of pork tenderloin and shoulder to be served pinkish.

"Sous vide can allow pathogens to survive if food safety rules are not followed carefully," Morris warned. "It requires good knowledge and skills to carry out the process safely."

Chefs and food critics complain that inspectors have been over-zealous in applying the rules governing the cooking of meat. But Morris defended the right of food inspectors to intervene in the debate.

"Chefs have good craft skills, but are not food safety experts," Morris said. "Where there is evidence of real risk then inspectors are justified in telling chefs about the boundaries of safety."

The Belgians know all about mussels and chips, but at the cavernous Léon de Bruxelles it's being lost in translation

24 Cambridge Circus, London WC2 (020 7836 3500). Meal for two, including drinks and service: £75

A Friday night and I am sitting in what feels like a dying restaurant. It's not in intensive care yet. Think more high-dependency unit, its owners furiously studying the weekly figures for a settled pulse.

I am in Léon de Bruxelles, the only British outpost of the 120-year-old Belgian mussels-and-chips chain, which has dozens of branches across its home country and France. It's more than three-quarters empty. This is remarkable. Nothing around London's Cambridge Circus is empty, not on a Friday night. Garfunkel's is full. Café Rouge is full. Despite my very best efforts, the Angus Steakhouse, where they torture steaks nightly, is full.

But not Léon de Bruxelles. You can almost hear the wind blowing between the tables. The transparent laminate covering on the wipe-down mussel-shaped menus is curling off. Then again, why replace them if no one is coming? It can't claim a location problem. It occupies a huge site opposite London's Palace Theatre, is gilded in green bloody neon. Not finding it would require talent. And yet it's all shiny tables and empty seats.

I do find this odd. Mussels in the shell are one of the most gloriously compelling eating experiences there is. They turn the modern eater into ancient hunter-gatherer, roaming the tundra of shiny black shell in search of dinner. Plus, they are a brilliant leveller. However uptight you are, however much of a clean freak, it's impossible to eat them with cutlery. It's a sleeves-up, elbows-on-the-table, get-stuck-in job. Like the flick and pick of the pistachio nut from its shell, the very process of mussel eating is meditative. You zone out and stare deep into the steamy bowl until your eyeballs fog.

Or at least I do. That's why I wanted to go. Long ago I was quite the fan of Belgo, the London-based mussels-and-chips chain where the waiters were all forced to dress like Belgian monks, poor sods. It was serious man-on-mussel action. In 1996 Belgo Centraal, a cavernous and gloomy industrial basement space in Covent Garden which finally brought the aesthetic of a BDSM bar to eating out, was named London restaurant of the year. We were young then. They attempted a brand roll-out, but it didn't take. There are just four left.

And now there's this place which opened last year and which on a Friday night has many staff and few customers. The staff isn't the problem. They are friendly and engaged and have clearly read every page of the training manual, probably a few times. Our waiter almost sounds convincing when he declares their beer cocktails to be "very special". The thing is, special ain't the same as good. I knew a chap who could do something "special" with a lighter and his bodily methane. I wasn't paying for that either. I stick with a good wheat beer.

Part of the problem is the room, which is huge and sterile, with zany things scribbled on brightly coloured boards, the design equivalent of Timmy Mallett's glasses. On closer examination these turn out to be dish names. The room looks like the canteen of a direct marketing company which has tried to inspire the workforce by giving itself a half-arsed makeover. My wife looks around and declares the narcoleptic strawberry blush of the Angus Steakhouse down the road more welcoming. I know how to show a woman a good time.

On one wall there is a photograph of the Manneken Pis; on the other, the silhouette of Tintin. Of course these are not the only famous Belgians. There's a whole board listing "Les Belges Du Monde" –about 100 names in total, of which we recognise Jacques Brel, René Magritte, Brueghel and Johnny Hallyday. There's someone listed as Cockrent, which sounds like the name a male porn star would abandon for destroying all the mystique. On closer examination we identify a full stop between the C and O. We look forward to acquainting ourselves with the work of journalist Christina Ockrent.

We have time to brood on all this because of the aching gaps between courses. There's nothing better guaranteed to make service run slow than a lack of people to serve. If you want to eat quickly, go to a busy restaurant. We watch those who arrived after us being served before us. The food, when it deigns to appear, has OKs and kill-me-now lows. A starter of warm smoked eel, with mustard-smeared toast, is all rich fish oils and kick. It's an expression of the Lowlands, the sort of thing you would eat to ward off chilly fogs. A plate of their charcuterie is a reasonable selection served, predictably, too cold. We let them flog us some slices of dead horse. It is smoked, a little sweet, and rather cloying.

And finally, the mussels. They needed to be good. Being a mussel restaurant that can't do good mussels is like being a cardinal who's crap at praying, or a slaughterman who can't stand the sight of blood. Léon de Bruxelles is all these things and far less. The meat inside the shells is small and shrivelled and dry; each shell contains what looks like the retracted scrotum of a hairless cat. They appear to have been left to steam for too long. Those with Dijon mustard are vinegary. I order the Madras mussels, because it's my stupid job to do so. It's exactly as you would expect Indian food to be were it cooked by Belgians. It smells of old curry-flavoured pot noodle; the flavour is not dissimilar. Eating these mussels is not meditative or compelling. It's just disappointing.

The unlimited chips come in deep ceramic pots and are crisp at the top and damp at the bottom where they have steamed in their own heat. Each mussel pot costs a fearsome £14.90.

We finish on a high with a freshly made waffle, a crisp puff of malty wonder with whipped vanilla cream, ice cream and maple syrup. I could say I'd come back for that waffle alone, but we all know I wouldn't.

Obviously our meal at Léon de Bruxelles isn't great. That goes without saying. But what really matters is that it's also terribly, terribly sad. That is a failure of a much deeper kind.

News bites

For more reliable mussel action head to Crab Shakk in Glasgow. This tight snug of a restaurant was the brainchild of an architectural practice, and looks like it: there's a lot of rough-hewn wood, a glass-topped bar and a serious bit of metal staircase. It's a good setting for proper seafood – piles of langoustine served cold or grilled, cracked crab claws, and, for £10.95, a big bowl of mussels. Crab Shakk, 1114 Argyle Street, Glasgow (0141 334 6127; crabshakk.com).

The words "purpose-built humidification" and "controlled moisture cabinet" are hardly the stuff of poetry, unless applied to beef. Lancashire butcher-turned-restaurateur Kevin Birkins has invested in major new kit to dry-age Bowland beef on the bone for 35 days, to be served at both the Fence Gate Inn near Burnley and the Eagle at Barrow near Clitheroe. Steak fetishists take note. fencegate.co.uk and theeagleatbarrow.co.uk/brasserie

Wonderful Soho ramen bar Tonkotsu is about to open a sibling in Hackney, but as yet doesn't have a drinks licence. As a result they're staging a bring-your-own booze event on 28 September, £30 for three courses. Visit tickettext.co.uk and search for Tonkotsu (tonkotsu.co.uk)

Cafe des Chats, in the Marais district, offers 'purr therapy' that 'helps relieve arthritis and rheumatism' and help animal lovers looking for feline companionship

Customers braving the rush at Paris's newest cafe to order their coffees and croissants are now able to enjoy them in the company of a dozen resident cats offering "purr therapy" to pet-starved patrons

Cafe des Chats, which is in the heart of the capital's chic Marais district, is home to a dozen felines who weave in between the tables or curl up on armchairs as diners tuck in.

The establishment is aimed at Parisians unable to keep pets in cramped city-centre apartments and though the idea may seem eccentric, cafe manager Margaux Gandelon says the potential health benefits of "purr therapy" are real.

"Purring produces vibrations which relieve arthritis and rheumatism, which lower your blood pressure and your heartbeat," Gandelon said.

This month's opening weekend saw queues snaking along the pavement and bookings taken from now until November. Around 300 potential customers had to be turned away.

Gandelon says animal welfare is paramount and customers are prohibited from subjecting the cats to undue stress. She is prepared to evict any customers who fail to play by the rules, although she admits she is more lenient with the animal residents. "Cats are cats," she said.

The animals were either abandoned or stray cats adopted from pet rescue centres. Among them is Habby, who suffers from feline dwarfism and has a stunted tail and unusually short paws.

Despite two years spent with foster families the sweet-tempered tabby was never adopted but has now settled into to cafe life.

Visiting the cafe out of curiosity, business student Florian Laboureau described it as a "great concept", but admitted he is more of a dog person.

Philly's rapidly-evolving restaurant scene holds plenty of adventurous new stuff to try as well as the old favourites. Here we serve up a mix of the two

Geno's

No one was going to get out of this list alive without talking about cheesesteaks, that most Philadelphian of sandwich. Wars have been started over less than what the local fave of meat/cheese/roll is, and the recent history of venerable cheesesteak outpost Geno's has been particularly controversial. However, for the overall "cheesesteak experience", no one has ever been better than Geno's.
• 1219 S 9th St, +1 215 389 0659, genossteaks.com. Mains $8.50-9.50

Jerry's Bar

Jerry's Bar is essentially the perfect neighbourhood eatery. The beautifully renovated space (run by father and daughter William and Christie Proud) has a timeless feel, and everything is done the way it should be. The local, seasonal dishes are always fresh and flavourful, and the brunch menu is arguably the best in town. There are cocktails to match the food – classics and new creations, but never too fussy.
• 129 Laurel Street, +1 267 273 1632, jerrysbarphilly.com. Mains $16-23

Vernick Food & Drink

There are few dining experiences in Philadelphia to top that of the husband-and-wife-owned Vernick Food & Drink. Chef Greg Vernick excels at creating consistently simple, fresh and refined fare that changes frequently, and includes an assortment of toasts, a raw bar, small and large plates and food roasted in the wood-fired oven. And the service is top-notch.
• 2031 Walnut Street, +1 267 639 6644, vernickphilly.com. Mains $25-$32

Vietnam

We've been eating at Vietnam since long before all but one of the spots mentioned on this list (Geno's) were some young chef's dream. And as Benny Lai's flagship Vietnamese eatery in Chinatown has grown since the 1990s, so have we; by about 20 pounds. Now, we can't attribute all of that to Vietnam's venerable BBQ platter – which includes pork meatballs, char-grilled chicken, and beef wrapped in grape leaves – but between that and their iconic-in-these-parts vermicelli noodle bowls, there's some serious representation. In this way, over the years, Vietnam has become a staple of Philly comfort food. A West Philly location, convenient to UPenn and Drexel, is now open, boasting all of that same goodness.
• 221 North 11th St, +1 215 592 1163, eatatvietnam.com. Mains $9-16

Noord Eetcafe

Chef-owner Joncarl Lachman has drawn on his Dutch lineage to create a first-of-its-kind northern European bistro in Philadelphia. The menu features smoked fish, delicious bitterballen (braised and fried pork meatballs with nutmeg and mustard) and Amsterdam-style mussels (to name a few). Lachman's warm personality rounds out a notable dining experience.
• 1046 Tasker Street (@ 11th), +1 267 909 9704, noordphilly.com. Mains $17-$28

Serpico

You may have heard of Stephen Starr fellow. He's the restaurant-auteur who's built a small empire of restaurants around Philly and then America, each jumping on some particular foodie bandwagon of the moment. Recently, it's his new collaboration with Peter Serpico that stands out. Served in a sleek, dark and distinctly modern venue, Serpico's menu is rounded out with elegant, ambitious "global fare". His chilled dashi soup is a revelation; likewise his deep-fried duck leg served on a potato roll, and Cope's corn ravioli.
• 604 South Street, +1 215 925 3001, serpicoonsouth.com. Mains $13-$26

Zahav

The "core curriculum" at chef Michael Solomonov's Zahav has changed very little since its opening, and that's not out of laziness: eight years on, his take on modern Israeli cuisine is still essential – there's still nothing else quite like it around. With a menu built from salatim (cold vegetable dishes, mostly) and hummus, mezze plates and kebabs, Zahav is deceptively simple in some ways; but the menu also contains dishes like grilled duck hearts and crispy haloumi with golden raisins and carrots. We strongly recommend the Tayim tasting menu at $39 per person: get more than two people on this train and you're on your way to being able to taste the entire menu.
• 237 St James Place, +1 215 625 8800, zahavrestaurant.com. Small plates from $7, grilled plates from $9

Cheu Noodle Bar

The wildly successful Cheu Noodle Bar offers a range of traditional Asian dishes with the chef's own spin. The menu of small plates includes dumplings that change daily, veggies such as Szechuan long beans, and barbecued pig tails. The "noodles", all handmade, include a pork shoulder ramen, a brisket in chilli broth, cold jade noodles with crab, and more. The intimate space even features a wall made from the contents of instant ramen noodle packets.
• 255 S 10th Street, +1 267 639 4136, cheunoodlebar.com. Mains $9-13

Fette Sau

Fette Sau, another Starr outing (see Serpico), is a barbecue restaurant specialising in dry-rubbed meats sourced from small, local farms and smoked in-house. The menu changes daily, with meats (mainly cuts of pork and beef) available by the pound. The sides are kept simple and include burnt-end baked beans, broccoli salad, pickles and potato chips. The drinks list offers numerous beers on tap and an extensive list of North American bourbons and whiskies. Ordering is done cafeteria-style, with tray in hand, and picnic tables give the former industrial space a communal atmosphere.
• 1208 Frankford Ave, +1 215 391 4888, fettesauphilly.com. Mains $12-20

Federal Donuts

Chef Michael Solomonov (see Zahav) and business partner Steve Cook's goofy but delicious Federal Donuts is maybe the most successfully quirky foodery ever to hit Philly. The menu features a variety of inventive flavours of doughnuts and fried chicken, done with creativity and flair. Doughnut flavours include cookies and cream, banana cream pie and strawberry-ginger, while chicken seasonings include coconut curry, za'atar and buttermilk ranch.
• 1219 S 2nd St, +1 267 687 8258, federaldonuts.com. Mains $9-17, doughnuts from $1.25 or $6 for six

Lily Cope is the executive director of Cook, a demonstration kitchen in Philadelphia offering classes, chef dinners and tastings. Joey Sweeney is a writer, musician and publisher of the cityblogs philebrity.com and Phoodie.info

Eating out is often theatrical – and now one theatre company is turning their stage into a restaurant, with the audience as diners

From old-school silver platters and steak diane flambéed tableside, to contemporary open kitchens and infeasibly elaborate towers of food presented on designer plates, eating out has always had its theatrical elements. But these are mere dramatic flourishes compared to what will happen next week, when Theatre Damfino's The Table of Delights turns the Bristol Old Vic into a fusion of restaurant and theatre. Punters will be both spectators and diners, sitting centre stage at a nine-metre table alongside a top chef and a four-piece band.

I met Theatre Damfino's co-artistic director Katy Carmichael and the chef Matt Williamson during rehearsals, with the opening night a mere nine days away. But if they were worried that this five-act, five-course experiment could end up an artistic dog's dinner, they weren't showing it.

"It's the same approach I take to cooking," says Williamson, "which is why I don't feel terribly stressed." Like many contemporary chefs, Williamson does not start with his menu and then work out how to execute it, but constructs dishes around the best ingredients available each day.

Similarly, Damfino rejects the traditional script-first approach and develops performances through workshops. Carmichael traces the growth of this form of theatre back to the success of Complicite, founded in 1983, while Williamson says Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray planted the seed of the ingredient-led approach at the River Cafe soon after, in 1987.

Still, Williamson's involvement might surprise those who know his acclaimed restaurant, Flinty Red, which eschews modern dining's more theatrical trappings: Williamson's priority is food, not performance. Likewise, in The Table of Delights, Carmichael says, "the food is the lead character". This differentiates it from other recent productions with strong food themes. "You can often go to these theatre food shows where it is quite high-concept but the food would be not great," she says. There is no danger of that here.

In The Table of Delights, we start with the five "ancient humble foods" that Williamson and Carmichael, along with their professional and life partners Claire Thomson and Tristan Sturrock, chose to structure the evening: bread, eggs, beetroot, spices and honey. These will not be shoehorned into a pre-determined narrative. The aim is simply to get the audience to consider every aspect of each food, including its history and meaning.

In the spice course, coriander, cumin, cinnamon and black chilli will be introduced individually as single "notes" before being played together as a "chord" in the Turkish dish turlu turlu – the taste experience should be enhanced after sampling the spices separately. Williamson has prepared some chickpeas with oil and all four of the spices. I pick at some cumin seeds and enjoy a fresh, citrussy burst of flavour from a toasted coriander seed. Having attended to the component parts, I appreciate the depth and harmony when I take one of the spiced chickpeas.

The beetroot course features a more surreal love story of two vegetables mercilessly massacred by Williamson in a blender, under lights tinted blood-red by beetroot juice – if they prove hardy enough in rehearsals. Williamson's beets have been steamed for a more pure and subtle flavour, compared with the intensity of the more usual roasted version. These are zapped quickly in the blender with oil, salt, yoghurt, cumin and a vinegar. Beetroot is one of my least favourite vegetables, but the result impresses even me with its wonderful balance of fresh, earthy and creamy.

Earthiness and humility are recurrent words in our conversation, reflected in the reluctance of Williamson, a butcher's son, to describe what he does as art. "My background is very much an artisan, a tradesman."

But if the rootedness of food, its connection with the brute necessities of nutrition, is an obstacle to people accepting cooking as an art form, it arguably also makes the culinary arts the most honest of all. As Carmichael puts it, there may well be real delights in taking "the humble ingredients of theatre, and the humble ingredients of food, and seeing what magic they create together".

London restaurant, which puts a new spin on historic British food, takes Fat Duck gastonomist's star tally to six for his three eateries

Heston Blumenthal, mingler of lab and kitchen, purveyor of gastropod porridge and architect of out-sized exercises in edible nostalgia, has added a sixth Michelin star to his growing empire.

The latest edition of the annual guide to the best food in the UK and Ireland has decided to award a second star to the chef's London restaurant, Dinner by Heston Blumenthal, because of its "glorious celebration of Britain's culinary heritage".

Dishes on the menu, which Michelin describes as "inspired by historic British gastronomy", include meat fruit (mandarin, chicken liver & foie gras parfait), powdered duck breast and Tipsy cake with spit-roast pineapple.

The latest star joins the three Blumenthal has won for the Fat Duck at Bray and the single one he holds for The Hinds Head pub in the same Berkshire village.

Arnaud Bignon's The Greenhouse, in Mayfair, London, also received a second star in the 2014 guide, which gives the UK and Ireland a combined total of 167 stars.

Blumenthal said he was overjoyed to win a second star for Dinner, adding: "It's been an incredible two and a half years for Dinner and this is just simply the highlight. As a Brit, I am very proud that a restaurant inspired by and celebrating historic British cooking has been recognised today."

Ashley Palmer-Watts, who heads the team at the restaurant, said he was "just blown away".

The guide's editor, Rebecca Burr, said that like many big-name chefs, Blumenthal had managed to find and train people who shared his passion and commitment to unflaggingly high standards.

"When Dinner opened, it really did reach a very high level but already from those early days we did think it was destined for more, but we needed to see consistency – which is a bit of a byword for Michelin – across the menu on every dish," she said. "They serve pretty big numbers there but what sets them apart is that they're celebrating our culinary heritage and that's really great to see."

Among the 15 restaurants to win a single star were Wilks, "an unpretentious neighbourhood restaurant" in Bristol, and Campagne, "a contemporary Kilkenny restaurant run by a dedicated couple".

The relentlessly hybrid flavours of Peru have continued their northern conquest, with the London restaurant Lima becoming the first Peruvian restaurant to win a star in the UK or Ireland.

Gabriel González, its co-founder and managing director, said the award – while totally expected – was deeply appreciated.

"It's a massive morale boost for the team and everyone is happy," he said. "But now it's time to work harder and maintain quality and delivery."

González, who believes Peruvian food is "the most sophisticated gastronomy on the South American continent", offered several reasons for the capital's newly discovered appetite for Peru's fresh and diverse cuisine .

"First of all, the products are very high quality and very healthy, which goes in line with today's eating habits," he said. "There's also a balance of flavours - acid; sweet – and it's just a very good combination, colourful, light and fun."

An 'authentic' Jerez tavern in London's West End gives Jay a taste of Spain – but not quite enough sherry…

Drakes Tabanco, 3 Windmill Street, London W1 (020 7637 9388). Meal for two: £70-120 (depending on sherries)

Gosh, but it's fun being an old Spanish farm labourer with calloused hands as knackered and lived in as WH Auden's face. A dust-dry glass of chilled fino is just what I need after a day out on the scorched hillsides tending to my goats. That, some briny olives, a little cured pig and some smoked scallop with avocado purée. Because that's exactly what us Spanish farm labourers eat all the time. We just can't get enough of that smoked scallop and avocado purée combo.

Look, can't a boy dream of a simpler life; one free of deadlines and spittle-flecked Twitter rows and Buzzfeed's latest list of 29 parts of Miley Cyrus no one should ever have been forced to look at in the first place? It's exactly the point of Drakes Tabanco, apparently modelled on a tavern of the kind found in Jerez where sherries are served straight from the barrel. I say all this with assumed authority. What do I know about a tavern in Jerez? I'm a north London Jewish boy who now lives in Brixton. Still, I'm prepared to take their word for it.

The two rooms are brightly lit. The walls are white, there is a big old wood bar and, behind it, the sort of barrels that plucky women used to roll over Niagara Falls back in the good old days when people had to make their own entertainment. It feels proper "peasanty".

At the far end is a tiny dark-wood charcuterie bar with a few legs of black cloth-wrapped ham. The basement bogs look like they belong to some old farmhouse where herdsmen sleep with their animals for reasons of space rather than lust. There are artfully distressed black-painted wooden shutters covering the windows. Though I'm only guessing about the windows because the shutters are nailed in place so hard it's impossible to know whether there's anything behind them. Probably not is my guess.

You get the point. Drakes Tabanco, tucked away on one of the more shadowy lanes off London's Charlotte Street, is a studied rustic fantasy of the sort people who live in cities just adore. We may live in cities for all the benefits they bring – noise, clamour, variety – but at night we retreat to places like Drakes Tabanco and pretend that really we live in a village. The joke being that nobody who actually lived in a village in Jerez would ever want to come here; they'd laugh at all the fuss and all the swooning over its authenticity. They'd probably kill to have a Malaysian noodle bar on their door step.

Mostly, it's a sophisticated exercise in theme-parkery from the team behind the nearby tapas bars Copita and Barrica, which are equally wood-lined exercises in Iberian fetishism. The weird thing is that Drakes, which is bigging up its sherry offering, has a much narrower choice of sherry than its siblings. OK. I get the barrel thing. I like seeing them draw my order out of the depths with one of those bendy metal contraptions. It all feels very real in a space which really isn't. But there are only five, plus a couple of bottled finos.

We liked the chilled Rare Old India, with its mitigated dryness and that slight hint of furniture polish. We enjoyed the deep, nutty amontillado and the massive raisin and molasses hit of the Pedro Ximénez, which tastes like liquefied Christmas cake. We appreciated the fact that you could get them in both 75ml and 100ml measures, meaning a small glass of basic fino costs just £2.90 (though it tops out at £10.50 for the good stuff). But quickly I felt like we'd rampaged through the list and it's not as if I'm king drunk of the drunken people. A short selection is fine if you really are running a bar on a hilltop far outside Jerez and there's nothing else for 10 miles in any direction. But in the middle of London, where we live for head-spinning choice, it doesn't make much sense. Perhaps the list will lengthen with time.

The food menu – a long list of tapas and a few more substantial mains – seems rather less committed to the whole nerdy authenticity thing. The cheeseboard, at a rather enthusiastic £12, holds both Spanish and British cheeses, including a very good soft English blue with the authentic tang of managed decay. It completely overshadowed the obligatory slab of dusty manchego, which is to top-flight cheese what the Trabant is to supercars. (Hands up if you would actively choose manchego over, say, a comté or an aged gouda? No, thought not). From that bit of Spain north of the Pyrenees in the Dordogne came a meaty tangle of goose rillettes, with gherkins and caper berries and served just warm enough so that the fat was beginning to melt.

There was a plate of sweet unshelled, unadorned Andalucian prawns for £6, and another of jamón de bellota, enthusiastically rather than skilfully sliced, for a pretty standard £15. Mojama – thinly sliced loin of smoked tuna – came dressed with the crunch of marcona almonds. Their gutsy romesco sauce, that eye-widening concoction of blitzed peppers, almonds, paprika, bread and garlic, left us wishing it had come with something a little more thrilling than tenderstem broccoli.

The sliced smoked scallops with a nappy smear of avocado purée merely taught me that scallops tense up when smoked and stop tasting of scallop. Much more the thing was the main course of roasted lamb breast with a stew of puy lentils and a few dabs of shouty salsa verde.

For dessert there was the sort of chocolate tart that would force you to lie in a darkened room for days wallowing in self-loathing if you actually finished it – we didn't – and another cultural non-sequitur of a well-made bakewell tart with clotted cream. Unless, of course, the people of Jerez are suckers for old-English puddings and pies. Anybody know the Spanish for Spotted Dick?

Drakes Tabanco is a bit of a head-scratcher. The Spanish staff are giggly and charming. It's all done with conviction, and it doesn't take much to buy into the conceit. The problem is that London's Spanish restaurant sector has exploded in the past few years, both in terms of size and quality. There's serious competition. If I want to pretend I live in a tiny village instead of a sprawling metropolis, I have a bunch of places in which to do so; and many of them have more than seven sherries with which to entice me.

Jay's news bites

■ For more serious sherry action try El Gato Negro Tapas, a much-loved restaurant housed in a West Yorkshire stone house in Ripponden, near Sowerby Bridge. The food has all the familiar Spanish staples, but is never in thrall to them. Try the hake with samphire, clams and chorizo, or better still the scotch egg made with morcilla which should stand up to a glass of oil-thick Noe – a rare Pedro Ximenez with which you could weatherproof fences. El Gato Negro Tapas (01422 823 070; elgatonegrotapas.com)

■ With Christmas approaching, the healthy fast food chain Leon is trying to think out of the (gift) box. "How bad an idea would it be to do a reindeer soup for Christmas at Leon?" founder Henry Dimbleby recently asked his followers on Twitter. Donner and Blitzen, you have been warned.

■ Oh boy, do the Chinese lurve their pork. Recent figures show that exports of all things pig from Britain to China leapt nearly 600% in the first six months of this year. This comes on the back of recent news that a Chinese company has just bought Smithfield Foods, America's biggest pork producer, for $4.7bn.

Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk or visit theguardian.com/profile/jayrayner for all his reviews in one place. Follow Jay on Twitter @jayrayner1

I'll miss the legendary Gay Hussar when it closes its doors: not for the food so much, but for the character of the place and the people who went there. Don't let your beloved haunts go the same way

My tiny (and yes, somewhat obsessive) corner of the internet was howling in anguish on Friday as news filtered in about the imminent sale of The Gay Hussar restaurant. Overreaction? I don't think so.

These moody, dark jewel-hued rooms have lurked in Greek St for 60 years now. Declaring itself England's only Hungarian restaurant, it's not only a poignant ghost of old Soho, but a shrine to political history, the scene of endless plotting and backstabbing, pacts and backscratching.

Every corner and cranny is plastered with books and pictures. There's Tony Blair, grinning on the cover of his autobiography, nudging up to Karl Marx. Walls are papered with framed Martin Rowson cartoons of the political elite's great and not-so-good. It is famously and indelibly associated with Labour, with devoted regulars including Roy Hattersley and Michael Foot: there were even rumours of a camera link directly to Alistair Campbell's office. But it was used by Tories too: this was where Conservative "Wets" plotted to bring down Thatcher in the early 80s.

I went a few weeks ago with a pal, another restaurant critic who shares my fetish for the old-school; she had last been here with comedian Frank Skinner who dubbed it "the Goulash Archipelago". And while it was quiet-ish, our fellow diners were fantastically colourful: an eightysomething dame in leather trousers with almost-dead husband and rather perkier minder-bodyguard; a silver fox bellowing at his glamourpuss companion that he was about to introduce her to the next Sinatra. The tables, set with crossed red chilli peppers and folksy-patterned crockery, are so close together that its other claim to fame – as hotbed of delicious, indiscreet gossip – could still be easily detected, even if former owner, salonnier and legendary gossip vampire Victor Sassie was no longer there to do the spreading.

Victor's remarkable insider knowledge wasn't just gleaned directly from the politicians and socialites on whom he swooped like an avuncular vulture: renowned chef Shaun Hill, of The Walnut Tree, worked there in the early 70s "cooking gulyas, and helping Victor cook the books". He recalls one very unique feature: Sassie had installed listening devices in the walls of each floor. No wonder he was so clued up.

While the social media "noooooooos" were being wailed, there were also mutterings that the food was pretty dismal. And yes, our lunch was firmly rooted in another century, but it wasn't really much the worse for it. There was a lot of pinkness: fat pink sausages, the famous cherry soup (one Twitter chum recalls when she was pregnant and living nearby, the restaurant would send her emergency supplies of the cult classic); slabs of fatty, ripe pink goose with spice-scented fuchsia cabbage. There were lashings of sour cream and paprika, and if an item could be stuffed or wrapped, it was. Apart from the odd anomaly – vegetarian goulash – it hadn't changed much over the decades. This was food for the eponymous Hungarian horsemen to bolster themselves before a night of riotous drinking. An approach cheerfully adopted by the likes of notorious MP Tom Driberg, whose Gay Hussar antics included trying to recruit Mick Jagger into standing for the Labour party in an upstairs salon. It was the standing of a different kind of member that allegedly caused Jagger to scarper from what became fondly known as The Tom Driberg Memorial Room.

I'm so saddened by the news that somewhere as drenched in character and fable is being sold off. Some of my favourite joints in the world are old-timers: San Francisco's wood-panelled Tadich grill; leery eeriness in LA's Formosa Café or Musso & Franks. The perfectly-preserved Alvar Aalto interior of Savoy in Helsinki. Barcelona's grumpy, seductive 7 Portes. These are all still loved, still thriving.

But restaurants echoing with the voices of the past are disappearing, while the new foodiegentsia follows the herd in search of the latest fist food. Great old places such as Odin's, with its dining room full of Hockneys and Proctors; the deliciously melancholy Lorelei, which was like walking into a past furnished with frothy coffees in pyrex cups. The seminal Hole in the Wall. Judge me if you like, but I cried when the New Piccadilly closed its doors for ever. And yes, I did use it. I did go there.

Use them or lose them, I say. Wallow in the extant likes of Simpson's Tavern, the Bleeding Heart, Mr Thomas's Chophouse. Bobby's in Leicester for its rousing chaats. Look at how gorgeous Rogano in Glasgow has survived and thrived over the decades. Few have the rackety, politics-drenched loucheness of The Gay Hussar however. I fantasise that owners Corus Hotels might be savvy enough to install a decent chef while keeping the rest as is, but I know it's more likely to be a "gourmet" fried chicken outlet. I'm off to Rules now, to raise a glass to the departed.

Here's a peek inside L Manze's perfectly preserved interior, and some more of London's finest pie and mash shops

'The dishes' names and ingredients are lyrical and thrillingly alien, and half the time you've no idea what they are; but you do know you're going to be fighting over the last scraps'

What a gorgeous thing this is. We're sharing it, but I've stopped being polite and am shamefully grabbing as much as I can. There's crunch from shards of fried puri and wisps of sev, sweetness from date, tamarind and jewels of pomegranate, the odd strident nip of coriander. A different kind of texture comes from mealy black chickpeas and the whole thing is held together by the soothing balm of yoghurt. It's papri (or papdi or papadi) chaat, a popular Indian street food snack; I've had it many times before, but I can't remember ever feeling like fighting over it.

It's typical of the food at this tiny East End restaurant run by Urvesh Parvais with his mother, Lalita Patel: all vivacity and freshness. They started out selling their family recipes handed down over the generations at London's foodie markets, but have now graduated to an actual restaurant, too. If you can call it that: they don't so much have an open kitchen as a kitchen with a few tables huddled around it, so you can watch as spices are tempered in seething oil and chaats are assembled moments before serving. The methi na thepla – little flatbreads honking with leafy fenugreek that lives in my pores for days – are slapped out and hit the fryer minutes before they're delivered to us by the beauteous Polly.

We have butteta vhada: potato formed into little balls in a gram flour coating, the seemingly pedestrian ingredients made thrilling by the addition of ginger and chilli, and a sultry tomato and curry leaf chutney. And a slightly fermented-tasting and porridgey chickpea khumni ne sev (often served at breakfast, unsurprisingly), which is far more engaging than its appearance would suggest.

I like these starters, or snacks, and the side dishes better than main courses, which can venture into amorphous brown stew territory. I'm thinking particularly of an aubergine, potato and pea number that looks like the kind of thing you resort to when using up the last of the veg box. But the red aduki bean dahl, oh lordy. It's glorious: buttery, rich, each spice making its presence felt without shouting, slightly sweetened with jaggery. It's a thing of humble but absolute luxury.

Every week there's a different menu. You might find athanu: slices of fresh mango spiked with tingling spices into a kind of instant chutney. Or one of their insanely good bhujias: onion or broccoli, fried till crisp, the batter aerated with a fizz of bicarb. Or mhutia: crunchy wafers laced with ajwain (carom) seeds, like poppadoms with attitude.

The dishes' names and ingredients are lyrical and thrillingly alien – vaal, farari chevro, ohndwo – and half the time you've no idea what they are; but you do know you're going to be fighting over the last scraps. The prevalence of Jainism in Gujarat means that the state is mostly vegetarian (Rasoi is totally so, although it's not the full satvika, avoiding onion and garlic, for which I'm eternally grateful). But rarely have I missed meat less. And, surprisingly for such a tiny outfit, they're licensed, offering unusual, Indian-spiced cocktails and pleasing organic Sicilian wines decanted into stoppered bottles. Afterwards, even though we've scarfed virtually the whole menu, we feel energised and frisky, up for hitting Dalston's moody cocktail establishments. Yah boo sucks to post-curry torpor.

To say that Gujarati Rasoi is no frills is restrained understatement. Decor runs to chipboard and concrete with a few flourishes of ornate fabric bunting for levity. If you sit too near the kitchen (and, even with their recent colonisation of the next-door space, it's hard not to), you can fry every bit as thoroughly as the thepla. But you get the very real sense that you're enjoying the hospitality of talented Gujarati home cooks, without needing to be invited into actual Gujarati homes. Which is a privilege I'm happy to cross town for.

• Gujarati Rasoi 10c Bradbury Street, London N16, 020-8616 7914. Open dinner

Wed-Sat, 6-10.30pm; Sat brunch noon-3pm. About £25 a head for three courses, plus drinks and service.

Food 7/10
Atmosphere 5/10
Value for money 8/10

Follow Marina on Twitter.

Restaurants are making more money by not holding tables – but diners pay the price

A line of people wait patiently on the pavement of a Soho street in London on a midweek evening. They shuffle slowly forward towards the commanding figure of the doorman, who warns them they will have to wait longer.

The queue is not for a modish nightclub but for a restaurant. It has become a common scene in central London and is spreading to other parts of the UK. Many restaurants now refuse to take reservations and tell customers they could wait up to two hours to eat.

Joyce Wang, a restaurant blogger, said she hated the new trend of queueing. "Now I try to get there early or wait a maximum of 15 minutes. If you are savvy, you don't go at peak times," she said.

Before 7pm on Thursday, the queues are already forming in Soho. Outside Honest Burgers, 10 people are waiting to give their names to a waiter who then tells them how long they will have to wait. Another group arrives, summoned by text message. "We waited 40 minutes, when they said it would be 90. We promise we'll eat quickly," said one.

On nearby Dean Street, the much larger Burger and Lobster has one queue to get to the door, which is monitored by a doorman. Inside, there is another queue to a hostess, who then tells customers how long they have to wait and ushers them to the packed bar.

Around the corner, the restaurant 10 Greek Street offers a two-hour wait. But at the long established L'Escargot which is now owned by Marco Pierre White, the restaurant is quiet at 7pm and tables are immediately available.

Wilkes McDermid, another blogger, said that he first noticed the trend a few years ago. "I think the main reason is that restaurants don't have to worry about no shows, although I'm sure there is a marketing benefit when it is very obvious a place is popular and people are willing to wait," he said.

The queues suggest a booming economy in London, but could also reflect a change in culture. Michael Gottlieb, chairman of the Restaurant Association, said that more and more people regard eating out as common practice as entertaining at home becomes rarer.

He said: "London is booming in a way that I have not seen since I started in the business in 1980, and the range of diners is growing. London remains a bubble, but there is definitely a general improvement elsewhere in places like Sheffield, Birmingham and Liverpool."

The practice of not taking reservations is driven by mercenary and fashion reasons, says Gottlieb. "The reason people do not take reservations is because they make more money not holding tables for reservations and they think they can get away with it. When they don't have the queues, they will take reservations. Though when that is the case, you won't need a reservation," he said.

Gottlieb, the American founder of the Smolensky restaurants, said he did not think the practice had been imported from the US. "These days it's more likely that trends in restaurants will go from London to the United States," he said.

Diners in Belfast queue for Villa Italia and the practice is common in Manchester. The city's Almost Famous seemed to pride itself on maintaining queues and an indifferent attitude to customers until it burned down earlier this year.

Its sister restaurant, Luck, Lust, Liquor and Burn, has carried on the trend and it is common to wait for an hour to eat midweek.

The trend has not yet become common in Scotland where popular restaurants insist on reservations, sometimes weeks in advance.

Queuing for restaurants is not new. Chartier opened in Paris in 1896 and hundreds continue to pass through the Rue du Faubourg-Montmarte restaurant every hour. Service is fast but there are invariably queues.

The practice is also common in the United States in areas such as the 14th Street corridor in Washington DC.

Queuing makes more sense for restaurants with a quick turnover and low prices. John Devitt, the owner of a Japanese restaurant, Koya, said that queueing made more sense for certain types of cuisine. "In Japan you would not make reservations to go to a noodle bar. People don't eat dessert, so they don't linger. It's more authentic and more democratic," he said. "At Koya, people spend around £25 and about 45 minutes. If you are spending £50, you might feel entitled to a guaranteed place for 90 minutes or so. Some people are surprised that we don't take reservations, but they don't understand the style of restaurant."

There is no shortage of new restaurants in London. Scores open every month. But it seems unlikely that will lead to shorter waiting times.

Jay loves the fat-soaked food of his ancestors. So what's this – Jewish food that's both healthy and tasty?

Zest at JW3: 341-351 Finchley Road, London NW3 (020 7433 8955). Meal for two, with drinks and service: £70-£90

Something terrible has happened to my people. They have lost their way. It's worse even than that whole 40-years-in-the-desert thing which, in any case, was just a map reading issue. This is about sense of identity. It's about the very essence of what it is to be a Jew; or at least a north west London Jew like me whose forebears came from that bit of Eastern Europe, where a pogrom was the nearest anyone had to a spectator sport and the menus were written with the bitter winters in mind.

Yes, it's all to do with dinner. For decades being an Ashkenazi Jew in London meant going nose down in lumps of salted meat, boiled to a point whereby you could eat them without a full complement of teeth. It meant pucks of shredded potato and onion that have taken a long, shameless bath in the deep fat fryer. There were pickled bits and dirty notions involving large amounts of chicken fat. Oh the things we could do with chicken fat. For decades this diet also held sway under the unforgiving, Middle Eastern sun of Israel, which isn't that surprising. Many of the original Jewish settlers were Ashkenazis. This was what they ate. It was who they were.

Do I need to tell you this food is truly awful? A Jewish cuisine? Don't be silly. It's nowhere near refined enough to be called that. The only people who should ever talk about a "Jewish cuisine" are French Jews showing off their new kitchens. If it emerged now as a food trend, public health officials would set up outreach centres in an attempt to nudge people away from a lifetime of ever-hardening arteries. But it's our food. It's my food. And I love it.

So what's gone wrong? I'll tell you what's gone wrong. The food of the Ashkenazis has been usurped by the food of their Mediterranean brothers, the Sephardim. Theirs is a culinary tradition full of sunlight and warmth and zest and life, rather than dead things and chicken fat. We've seen it in the dishes served at Ottolenghi and at Honey & Co and now it's at Zest, the thrilling restaurant in the newly opened Jewish cultural centre JW3, off London's Finchley Road. The chefs are north Londoner Josh Katz and Israeli- born Eran Tibi, both of whom previously worked for Yotam Ottolenghi, because it's the law that you must do so before setting up a restaurant like this. Quietly, unexpectedly – and without anybody bothering to consult me – Jewish food has become really, really good. Frankly, I'm appalled.

It all reflects a demographic and cultural change in Israel, which may once have been dominated by the Ashkenazis but increasingly has become a Middle Eastern country. Inevitably it is those flavours which now hold sway. Perhaps they noticed that the food of the Sephardim is simply much better suited to keeping kosher. The Ashkenazi repertoire is essentially the diet of the Slavic peoples minus the pig. Sephardic food is far less reliant on meat or butter. It focuses on vegetables, olive oil and occasional outbreaks of fish. Gastronomically, a lot of kosher Ashkenazi food is about compromise, to keep true to the imperative not to mix milk and meat. There is very little in the way of compromise about the Sephardic diet. The food is exactly the same as that eaten by the non-Jews in that part of the world.

The meat-free menu at Zest is a case in point. It is completely and utterly kosher – witness the preponderance of men in yarmulkes eating there, gratefully – but that is the least interesting thing about it. What matters is that the food is delicious; that it tastes like you are both being kind to yourself and showing your mouth a good time.

The restaurant occupies a huge, airy vault at the base of a quite extraordinarily beautiful new building, full of white walls which will be a bugger to keep clean. A wall of glass – have they thought of the dust? – looks out on a huge public space which in the summer it will doubtless expand across. It reminds me of a modern museum space in Manhattan. For all the hard surfaces it is calming.

The menu is divided between mezze at £3 to £4 a plate, and salads and mains in the low teens. There are caramelised florets of cauliflower, in a sharp dressing of sweet dark pomegranate molasses and tahini – they do love their tahini – with lots of sliced spring onion; there's a chewy and soft stew of aubergine with walnuts and the high fresh breathy notes of coriander. There is a bowl of mesabaha, a kind of hummus for people like me who hate hummus, made with smoked paprika, peppery olive oil and more tahini. It turns up again gloriously adulterated with fiery harissa as a dipping sauce for crisp tuna croquettes. There are dribbles of yogurt here and there, and bursts of acidity and sweetness.

It all continues into the mains. A vast salad of seared mackerel – both crisp-skinned fillets are included; the place is full of Jews and we don't do small portions – is served with a crunchy autumn slaw, some squidgy caramelised fennel and the soft yogurt cheese labneh, with a touch of saffron. Best of all is the Zest fish burger: a crisp battered tranche of hake with harissa aioli, dill cucumber and onions caramelised until they are more dark savoury sugars than allium. All of it is served on a brioche-style glazed bun the size of my head. And I have a very large head.

Zest had been open just two days so they only had three desserts. A quince crumble is the one disappointment. It eats like muesli with undercooked fruit. Far better are glazed sweet potato doughnuts, straight from the fryer, and a bread-and-butter pudding made with rugelach, a famously light pastry rendered rich and heavy by this treatment. There are glazed plums with it and the gauche prettiness of jade green crushed pistachios. The wine list is short and, being aimed at Jews who do not drink, an afterthought. Just know this: we had a bottle of rosé and it definitely had alcohol in it. What's most striking about Zest is the vigour, the briskness and, well, zestiness of it all. It is a Jewish restaurant which is utterly inclusive. It is also a Jewish restaurant serving really good food. That is something I will have to get used to.

Jay's news bites

■ For those still craving the artery-hardening joys of salt beef, the London mothership remains the 47-year-old Brass Rail, now located in Selfridges food hall. It may not be the cheapest, but its luscious thick-cut beef is still the one against which all others must be rated. It's also consistent. For example, carver Sag Musa has just celebrated 40 years at the chopping board. In that time he's cut five double-decker buses' worth of salt beef. The Brass Rail, Selfridges, Oxford Street, London W1.

■ Reasons to be cheerful: the loss-making Pizza Hut chain is about to pony up £60m to revamp its restaurants in a desperate attempt to attract back customers. Other strategies include launching the crime against common decency which is the cheese burger pizza, with a mini burger built into each slice. Just 2,880 calories a pop.

■ There are bad seasonal food ideas (what were you thinking, Pringles, with your Mint Choc Chip flavoured crisps?) and there are good ones. Step forward the six-strong Ginger Pig chain of butchers which is marking bonfire night with toffee-apple flavoured sausages: pork, apple and treacle. thegingerpig.co.uk

Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk or visit theguardian.com/profile/jayrayner for all his reviews in one place. Follow Jay on Twitter @jayrayner1

When some are struggling to feed their families, those with the money to splash at restaurants can feel less ashamed about doing so

In an age of food banks, the restaurant business has a problem: how do you make people who have the dosh feel comfortable about dropping £120 or more on dinner on a regular basis? Simple. You dispense with the word "restaurant". Far too glossy. A restaurant is all silver cloches, and linen so heavy you could swaddle a newborn in it. You need something humble. You need something that draws on history and tradition. In short, you need the word "tavern". It's all there, isn't it? The tavern is the pub's bedroomed soulmate. As Samuel Johnson said: "There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern." He knew a thing or two about a good night out, did Sam.

Right now they're spreading across London like bindweed in spring. There's the Newman Street Tavern just north of Oxford Street, where a good bit of grouse will set you back £24.50. Angela Hartnett and her colleagues have just opened the Merchants Tavern in Shoreditch, complete with distressed brickwork, curving leather banquettes and frosted glass screens. Best of all, though, is chef Jason Atherton's very humble Berner's Tavern at the London Edition Hotel. The ceiling is so high you could fly a kite in there, as long as you didn't chip the Georgian roses. There's acres of polished wood, a clutter of dodgy art and chandeliers like crystal tits. It's a humble room, much as Louie Spence is a quiet chap who doesn't draw attention to himself.

Atherton has other well-regarded restaurants playing similar linguistic games: a couple of them are called "socials", as though they were working men's clubs in Burnley; another is an "eating house". It's not a restaurant at all. Just a functional place to refuel on roast wild Cornish sea bream with saffron farfalle and truffle artichoke puree.

The model for all this, as ever, is New York. The famed Tavern on the Green – now gone, sadly – was one of the starriest restaurants in the city. The Gramercy Tavern may have a half-timbered ceiling, but it also has a $120 (£75) tasting menu. And like the London newcomers, it's always full. After all, nobody need feel ashamed of going out for dinner at a humble tavern.

The self-taught culinary master was found 'unresponsive' by rescue crews called to his Lincoln Park home

'The Oyster Stores' success seems little to do with quality of cooking or warmth of welcome'

I had planned to write an altogether different review this week, about a new arrival in a cathedral town, sending out all the right local-produce-cool-font-small-plates signals. But signposts can be misleading and our meal was dreary: disengaged service, tiny portions served on a selection of increasingly irritating wooden boards. They were talking the talk, but the walk was more of a half-hearted stagger. Still, savaging this kind of outfit leaves a horrible taste in my mouth; let them die a natural death or buck up their act untroubled by the ministrations of newspapers.

So I decide instead to check out a place I last stomped out of in a rage, bellowing, "I'm never going back", to see if it had improved any in the intervening years. Because, despite a constant stream of disgruntled reports, the Royal Native Oyster Stores are still as busy as they ever were.

It's not an overstatement to suggest this place kickstarted Whitstable's revival, clearing the way for any number of businesses punting shellfish to Down From Londoners, or purveying items that look darling in the harbourside shop but transform into unspeakable toot by the time you get them home.

Alas for my chilly revenge, we have a lovely lunch. Bathed in the last watery beams of primrose sunshine before winter hits, looking out on to the pebbly Whitstable beach from this beautiful historic building, it's easy to overlook flaws. The native oysters (which, to be fair, owners the Green family are largely responsible for rehabilitating) are as bracing and briny as a french kiss from a matelot, and come served with a little mignonette and bottle of Tabasco that looks like it's seen many a service. Potted crab is rich and buttery, the mostly brown meat fragrant with nutmeg.

Staff, apart from a clued-up older gal, appear to have taken a wrong turn on the way to snakebites at the student union, and are a bit tetchy as a result. But there's a fine bit of hake to compensate, flaking into snowy forkfuls, with a serviceable romesco and what can only be described as garnish of boiled potatoes. Mackerel, its smoky grilling a suitable treatment for butch, oily flesh perhaps a shade older than is desirable, is tamed by a pool of apple sauce. Kentish Chapel Down Flinty Dry is pleasingly gluggable. There are matronly puddings, treacle tarts and crumbles all nicely topped with a leaf-on physalis for that sophisticated 1980s touch.

But here's the rub. The Oyster Stores are taking the absolute piss; have been for decades. Lunch for two stings us for 127 quid. A small tangle of deep-fried squid with mayo costs £10.50. They're – correctly, it seems – taking us for suckers happy to hand over unconscionable wads of cash in order to fill deprived city lungs with sea air (because, believe me, there's not a native Whitstable-ian in the place, apart from those oysters). This for a joint where fish virtually leaps out of the water on to cheap plates, to be eaten with cheap cutlery while you drink out of cheap wine glasses. The "handwritten" menu pretends to be of the moment, but seems unchanged since I was last here. And it's an inflexible article: God forbid you might want chips instead of spuds with your mackerel, unless you're happy to fork out an extra £3.50 for the privilege.

The Oyster Stores' success seems little to do with quality of cooking or warmth of welcome. For my (lots of) money, it's down to beauty: the unbeatable location; the allure of the insouciant, rickety rooms – what started off as cheap expediency back in the day is now the very quintessence of maritime shabby chic. Then there are the Technicolor Whitstable sunsets, the pristine Kent coast seafood. And, of course, they rely almost entirely on transient trade. As far as I'm concerned, they can ram their big fish, small pool arrogance right up their scallops. This time I mean it: lovely lunch or not, I'm never going back.

• Royal Native Oyster Stores Horsebridge, Whitstable, Kent, 01227 276856. Open Mon-Thur lunch only, noon-2.30pm; Fri lunch noon-2.30pm, dinner, 6.30-9.30pm; Sat noon-9.45pm; Sun noon-8.30pm. About £40 a head for three courses, plus drink and service.
Food 5/10
Atmosphere 9/10
Value for money 3/10

A wine lover's hideaway in the New Forest, TerraVina promises much but the food is hardly vintage

Hotel TerraVina: Woodlands, Netley Marsh, New Forest, Hampshire (02380 293 784). Meal for two: £90-£120

Nobody visiting the Hotel TerraVina could ever forget where they were. They wouldn't be allowed to. The walls are plastered with cuttings about the place: bevel mounted, under glass, wooden frames. It doesn't matter how small the publication. It's all here, glowering down at you, challenging you not to be impressed. My eye flicked from restaurant review to local newspaper report to trade magazine feature. At any moment I expected to come across a certificate for swimming in your pyjamas.

I doubt this review will make it under glass. It's not that the Hotel TerraVina is without redeeming features. The staff are kind and solicitous. As the "Vina" bit of the name suggests wine-heads will love it. But there's something so self-regarding about the food, so mannered and overengineered, that it all ends up being exhausting. I arrived sprightly, I left needing a long lie down. I also arrived expecting to like it. The fact is I felt connected to the Hotel TerraVina. A decade ago I wrote a novel about a restaurant critic who decides to apologise for everything he's ever done wrong. For complicated reasons he needed to have a Francophone name that could also have an English pronunciation.

One day I stumbled across an interview with Gerard Basset, a renowned sommelier and one of the founders of the Hotel and Bistro du Vin group. I liked his small chain very much, and the name worked perfectly: it's pronounced Ba-say in French; in English, as in hound. Marc Basset was born. After a while my fictional restaurant critic expanded into the real world: Marc Basset became the name under which I booked countless restaurant tables. I did that for years, indeed until last week. Now I've told the story it's time to retire Mr Basset. He can return to being entirely fictional.

Gerard Basset won many awards, sold the hotel chain and opened this lump of bright red brick – think child's playset red brick – in the New Forest, as a hotel dedicated to wine. The list is impressive: long, yes, but well organised and with lots of choice at price points below £30. It's serious about wine without being pompous. It was its reputation for wine that had first made me consider coming.

A few weeks ago David Everitt-Matthias, chef at Le Champignon Sauvage in Cheltenham – which has just won the OFM award for outstanding contribution – sealed the deal by telling me one of his former chefs was now cooking there. Everitt-Matthias is a very good thing. His earthy approach to ambitious food, the way he makes humble ingredients sing, has always been thrilling. If one of his team was deep in the woods with Mr Basset, I had to go.

Unfortunately the whole thing is overheated, both figuratively and literally; we had to open a door by our table that led out to the garden, to let in a breeze. The decor is also odd: angular and blocky with a lot of Fanta orange-varnished wood. There's a touch of the institutional to it, as if it were a retirement home for hip older people who are not yet prepared to go the way of Laura Ashley prints. The food is equally self-conscious. A selection of hot "tapavinas" brings something called lamb bonbons, which sounds sweet and playful. They are deep-fried balls of braised, tangled and brutally dry lamb. It's a canapé in training for the Heimlich manoeuvre. Onion bhajis are just a tub of dry strands of caramelised onions, as though someone had sent us out a bowl of the garnish for another dish.

Many of the dishes seem to be constructed words first, as if they wrote what sounded like a cool description and then had to cook it. "Flamed mackerel" sounds butch and rugged. What we get are two thin strands of adequately cooked fillet. An accompanying gooseberry purée doesn't just cut through the oiliness; its acidity slashes and slashes again. A mouthful of that and your lips quickly pucker to a cat's bum. There are lumps of granola. Like I'd had for breakfast that morning. It's an ectopic ingredient, secreted into the middle of a meal it has no business being a part of. It's terribly drying.

That's a repeated theme. Too much of this food is the Tena Lady of gastronomy, drying everything in its path. A "black pudding purée" is an ugly grey smudge and nowhere near moist enough to do the business with pigeon breast, however perfectly rare it is served. I end up looking to the oiliness of fried Parma ham to get the whole dish moving, but it's stopped in its tracks by hazelnut crumb. It's the same problem with a piece of cod loin with fried basil gnocchi and a balsamic gel. The fish crumbles into the capers, and it all gets stuck in the gel.

Far better is a plate of big gamey venison faggots, clearly made with offal. This is proper ballsy cooking. And, praise be, there is even a sauce – though it is fiercely reduced to the point where it starts to stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Matron, pass the chisel.

The kitchen does know how to cook individual ingredients. There's technique on show. The problem lies in putting dishes together. Things are missed out. There's too much grandstanding. They attempt to send us out a freebie of a pumpkin velouté with a crisp wild mushroom arancini. (I insist it must be paid for.) I can see why they wanted us to try it; the pumpkin velouté is rich and deep and sugary, and has you whacking your tongue around your gums. The arancini is nicely done. Roasted pumpkin seeds add crunch. But even this is relentless. The velouté needs to be lighter. Like those framed cuttings, it's just overkill.

As is a white chocolate parfait with a walnut ice-cream that fades unto nothing against its brutal sweetness. A rhubarb soufflé is pert and bright and, being simplicity itself, the very best thing we eat. And unlike the wine list none of this feels like good value. Starters are from £7 to £11, mains from £14 to low 20s. For that you expect your lunch to be a pleasure rather than something to be stumbled through. You want to be fed, not lectured to. You want it all to make sense and it doesn't. Oh well, at least it saves on the framing costs.

Jay's news bites

■ For food from a chef with an interesting pedigree, try the Red Lion Freehouse at Pewsey in Wiltshire. Guy Manning worked at London's Chez Bruce and Thomas Keller's Per Se in New York before heading back to England. They make everything in house "from the lime cordial to the ketchup". The food also has a sense of place: the menu might include a ravioli of Wiltshire truffles. There are hints of all those high-end kitchens in the cooking's finesse, but it never loses sight of the fact that it is a pub. (redlionfreehouse.com)

■ This week sees the publication of Noma chef René Redzepi's intriguing book A Work in Progress: Journals, Recipes and Snapshots. It's both a cookbook and a year in the life of one of the world's most influential cooks. It has a foreword from Lars Ulrich of Metallica. Go figure.

■ Those who think gastronomic London is too smug by half will be delighted: Tripadvisor's latest global top 10 fine-dining list doesn't include a single joint in the capital. The only British restaurant listed is Raymond Blanc's Le Manoir at number 7.

Thousands of diners duped into paying high prices for faux premium ingredients at top hotels and restuarants

It began with a bogus scallop, but a menu scandal that has engulfed some of Japan's most prestigious hotels and department stores now threatens to undermine the international reputation of the country's vaunted cuisine.

Since one luxury hotel chain admitted lying about the provenance of ingredients on its menus last month, Japanese media have served up almost daily revelations of similar transgressions by restaurants run by well-known hotels and department stores.

The frenzy began when the Hankyu Hanshin hotel chain, based in Osaka, admitted it had given false descriptions of dozens of menu items at some of its restaurants between 2006 and last month, affecting an estimated 78,000 diners. Among the chief misdemeanours was a red salmon "caviar" dish that turned out to be the less sumptuous eggs of the flying fish.

A televised attempt by the hotel group's president, Hiroshi Desaki, to limit the damage by announcing a 20% pay cut for himself and 10% for other executives, failed to mollify angry consumers. Days later, Desaki resigned, conceding that the group had "betrayed our customers", although he added: "We never had the intention to deceive them." One of the hotel's head chefs later declined a medal of honour he was due to receive from the government.

The company has so far refunded more than 10,000 people to the tune of 20m yen (£126,000); the eventual bill is expected to reach 110m yen.

Japan's version of the horsemeat scandal has since spread to several household names in catering. While, as in Britain, no one has fallen ill from eating mislabelled produce, the outbreak of anger shows no sign of abating.

Consumers who believed they had eaten prized kuruma shrimps, for example, were told they had in fact dined on the much cheaper black tiger version.

The first incident, earlier this summer, went almost unnoticed. The Prince hotel in Tokyo was forced to come clean after a diner complained in a blogpost that a "scallop" dish he had ordered contained a similar, but cheaper, type of shellfish.

The hotel launched an investigation and went on to correct more than 50 menu items at dozens of its restaurants. Its report spooked Hankyu Hanshin and other hoteliers into admitting that they, too, had hoodwinked diners who believed they were paying high prices for premium ingredients.

The Hotel Okura chain – whose guests have included Barack Obama – confessed myriad sins, including injecting beef with fat to make it juicier and incorrectly describing tomatoes as organic. "We deeply apologise for betraying the expectations and confidence of our clients," it said in a statement.

The list of fraudulent ingredients continues to grow: orange juice from cartons sold as freshly squeezed; mont blanc desserts topped with Korean chestnuts instead of the promised French ones; bought-in chocolate cream masquerading as homemade; imported beef sold as high-end wagyu.

Even the government's top spokesman, Yoshihide Suga, was moved to comment. "These incidents have surfaced one after the other, and this inappropriate labelling has resulted in the loss of trust among consumers," he said. "These are clearly coverups."

The scandal has exploded at just the wrong time. Japan is trying to persuade South Korea and other countries to lift bans on food imports imposed in response to the Fukushima nuclear accident, while Unesco is considering a request to add Japanese cuisine to its intangible cultural heritage list.

Newspapers lambasted the culprits for sullying the reputation of Japanese food and hospitality. One newspaper ran the headline "Japan's proud food culture in tears," while the mass circulation Yomiuri Shimbun said it was "astonished by the [industry's] lack of morals".

The newspaper voiced concerns that the scandal could "harm the credibility of brand Japan, products and services, which are praised by foreign countries and tourists for their safety and security".

Industry experts said the global financial crisis in 2008 had forced luxury hotels to cut costs while attempting to woo diners with detailed menu descriptions. "Menu descriptions were created to meet consumers' preference for brand products, and when they couldn't obtain the ingredients stated on the menu, [hotels] just used food from different places of origin," Hiroshi Tomozawa, a hotel and restaurant consultant, told Kyodo News.

After the disgrace came the mea culpas, with dozens of firms apologising for misdeeds and promising to change their ways.

While they count the cost to their reputations, the hotels and restaurants involved are unlikely to face legal action. Menus are not covered by the agricultural standards law or by a food labelling law due to go into effect in 2015.

The authorities' only legal weapon is a law banning misleading representations of goods and service.

The industry's biggest nemesis will be Japan's discerning, and demanding, consumers. In a 2009 poll conducted by an online restaurant guide, 72% of respondents said provenance was the most important factor in selecting dishes from a menu, followed by calorific and nutritional details.