Last weekend: hot sausage and silver linings.

A mighty welcome visit to my partner, The Beard, in London began with the first of two hellishly protracted journeys. One of those sardine-can tube rides where lines keep going down, peoples armpits keep sweating, and out and out pandemonium feels a little close for comfort. It took us an hour and a half to go a simple eight stops on the northern line, and we had to change trains twice. No matter though, as back home The Beard had got us some oysters, which we shucked and ate with sizzling hot spicy sausage from the awesome Ginger Pig in Borough Market. Hot sausage and oysters... Sounds like a euphemism for something unculinary... Tastes bloody good though! The sweet saltiness of both ingredients counterpoint and compliment each other amazingly, and the hot/cold contrast emphasises their succulent, slippery textures. Amazing, and particularly so with Champagne (the NV Deutz - 'tastes like appletize', says The Beard).

The next day we experienced the second hellishly protracted journey. We hired a car to get to a friends wedding in the Cotswolds, which we'd been looking forward to for ages. By some extraordinary stroke of luck, we managed to get out of London on the right road without a map, and with only twenty minutes lost to being lost somewhere near Willesden. Unfortunately, fifteen miles from our destination, some wee shit rear-ended our car, leaving us stranded, in suits, on the verge of the A40, for four hours. We missed the wedding entirely, and were totally gutted. Spirits were kept afloat, but pork pies from the tesco over the road didn't much console the fact that we were absent from the event of a friends lifetime, so we decided to weave a silver lining, and book a table somewhere nice back in London. Fortunately, Moro would have us.

Sam and Sam Clark of Moro have published three cookbooks, the first two of which have been well worn in my kitchen for years now. Their Spanish/Moorish cuisine combines earthy, usually humble, central ingredients with exotic highlights, such as saffron and cardamom, to great effect. They do tapas expertly, and have a healthy knowledge of the wonders of sherry. Furthermore, they have such a respectful approach to the cuisine of their choice that the idea of cultural appropriation never enters your head. The books are great, so I had high expectations when we arrived. Thankfully, these were more than met.

We started off with Sherries at the long stainless steel bar. Taking in our surroundings in the warm lighting, we were handed chunks of fruity sourdough with oil, salt and pepper to enjoy with our aperitifs (mine, Hidalgo's lightly almondy Manzanilla Pasada, Pastrana, and his, the deliciously iodiney Manzanilla, La Guita). Aesthetically, Moro has got the art of the strong understatement down to a t. Two-tone walls of rich green and soft yellow surround a bustling floor, where people of all ages and classes chowed down happily on, well, that night it seemed to be mostly partridge (and what partridge). It's confident, professional and attractive, but without a hint of fine-dining ceremony and stuffiness. A good approach. Service was spot on for the surroundings: friendly and personalised, with a suggestion of a no-shit-taken policy, and a knowledge of the food and wines that could only have been born of direct enjoyment. Mind you, the food was just so bloody enjoyable, you would probably have to be dead or something not to like it. The Beard and I shared starters, and one, the quail baked in flatbread with pistachio sauce, was classic Moro: earthy and honest and simple, yet totally beautiful and beguiling and perfumed. The flatbread left little reassuring streaks of charcoal on the plate (it clearly came from a proper oven then), and hints of cardamom and caraway from the sauce popped onto the palate long after you'd chewed the juicy meat of the bird. Fantastic. Especially with the dried fruit and walnut flavours of the Don Jose Oloroso from Sanchez Romate. The other starter was good, but just not so good as the quail; scallops with green tomatoes and crispy garlic had a beautiful contrast of textures and well judged sweet spices, but lacked a bit of zip. Still, another glass of Manzanilla (the La Goya this time) contributed that nicely.

Mains we did not share, save for me eating his pork fat (which tasted like acorns, as all pork fat should. God it was good). My partridge with lentils, morcilla and apple was a bit of a dream come true in a 'how many of my favourite things on a plate?' sense. The bird, served whole from their Proper Oven, was ideal: soft, au point, salty and beautifully gamey, and, with the light, vinegar-dressed lentils and the luxurious combo of soft, spicy black pudding, and almost jellyish apple, it worked as a rustic yet balanced dish, made for satisfaction. The Beard went comfort foodwards and ordered the roast pork with mash and mushrooms. The quality of the fat spoke for the dish. He proclaimed it 'heavenly'. High praise. High praise indeed.

That was the restaurant budget blown for the month, so, much to my chagrin, we skipped dessert and went straight to the bill. Bollocks. Still, four courses and six sherries comprised an enjoyment that was well worth the £80 total, and we left deciding that next time, we'll have more, and maybe do tapas too.