You might think Gordon Ramsay has so many gastropubs by now that he’s in danger of making the next one a drive-thru and calling it McRamsay’s.Yet each is so refreshingly different, so location specific, you honestly can’t consider them a chain. And there’s definitely nowhere like The Warrington.

Established in 1857, this beautiful boozer boasts curlicued frescos romping with naughty nymphs, cosy nooks and richly stained glass. Topped off with unabashedly swirly pub carpet, its grandly proportioned period interior tips just the right side of garish. Inside the upstairs dining room, it’s a different realm: neat, neutral, presentable — and soullessly bland. As you’d expect from our Gordon, the menu bristles with Britishness so we drank a pleasantly appley English reserve white wine from Chapel Down, Kent (£22.50).

To start I had cullen skink (£6.25), a creamy haddock soup. Having sneered at his otherwise faultless six Purfleet rock oysters (£9.75) (purely because Purfleet sounds like a service station) the date was pleased with his slightly chewy Dedham Vale rib-eye (£17.25). For main I couldn’t fault my darne (cross-section cut) of salmon with teensy shrimps, capers and parsley (£14.75), luxuriating in butter that miraculously didn’t overwhelm the taste. The chips were a different matter. This is Ramsay’s third pub; you’d think he could fry a potato by now. These were the oily, limp chips of the living dead.

The Warrington, you see, isn’t really a gastropub.
It’s an outstanding proper pub with a smart but so-so restaurant upstairs. And I know which I’d rather be in.