Restaurant review, Joe Allen, 13 Exeter Street, London.

Oh, the twin emotions of horror at the fuss and pleasure at the attention. My mother has smuggled a birthday cake into the restaurant – again – and now the waiters are gathered around the table, singing that song, lit by 13 candles.

The memory still makes me squirm, (ahem) 30-something years later. And now I'm in the same restaurant, at the same table, looking at the same posters on the wall and listening to what looks suspiciously like the same pianist. Jimmy Hardwick, is that you?

I am at Joe Allen, the Covent Garden institution which has aged, it's fair to say, far better than I. Why revisit? Because the theatreland favourite might not have changed its aw-shucks no-fuss menu or its décor much since 1977, but outside its wilfully anonymous entrance, a great deal has changed. The past couple of years have seen an explosion of new restaurants nearby, whether your desire is to eat an engorged dirty hot dog at Mishkins surrounded by "creatives" or an altogether more elegant Viennese version at Delaunay, surrounded by "money".

Best of all is the mini iberico-pork and foie-gras burger at Opera Tavern around the corner, where everyone just looks (rightly) smug about getting a table.

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