There are many ways to approach the new year and I’ve probably tried them all. In an attempt to redress the damage done by the wilder excesses of Christmases past, I’ve taken myself off to spas, forsworn liqueur and eschewed any food beginning with a ‘c'(chocolate, carbohydrate, cream, cheese – you get the idea). But harsh regimes have a terrible boomerang effect. If you are denied something, it will quickly become an obsession (if you don’t believe me, just ask Ken Livingstone).

Which is why this year I’m embracing moderation. Wine by the glass instead of the bucket. Small platefuls of food rather than massive main courses. And why on a chilly day in January, I took my friend the actress to Terroirs in Covent Garden.

Terroirs sounds like a bad dream. Or the type of dog that brings back dead birds in the countryside. But, in fact, a terroir is a group of vineyards – or vines – from the same region. Something to do with type of soil and weather conditions, but why waste time on detail? It’s the taste that matters.

From the outside, the restaurant is unremarkable, but the moment you step inside you notice its Frenchness, from its no-nonsense furniture and framed posters, right down to the efficient and idiosyncratic staff who welcome you.

There’s something irresistible about the French who live in London. Place a person in a foreign land and suddenly their endearing national characteristics come to the fore. So instead of a disdainful reaction because you’re making a hash of the pasthistoric tense, you’re treated to a tongue-rolling and smiling discourse, delivered in a slightly stagey French accent. In fact, the actress thought that our sommelier/maître d’ sounded exactly like Peter Sellers in The Pink Panther (but much more handsome than the ex Goon). And so he was.

Terroirs’ menu is small and wellsourced. There’s a good selection of charcuterie and cheeses as well as plats du jour, but the small plates were the most tempting. We began with a whole small Dorset crab with mayonnaise, which drew admiring sighs from the couple sitting beside us at the bar. You would have sighed, too. We scraped every bit of meat from its shell. Next came a small flotilla of snails – dark, plump and gleaming as they adorned sourdough toast alongside sizzling slices of bacon. Faultless.

Having been in a recent production of Carousel, the actress was determined to have clams (the musical features a song about a clam bake, apparently). These were accompanied by ham, garlic and chilli, but were a tad too spicy for her. But the gleaming mound of Cantabrian anchovies with shavings of shallots and superb butter couldn’t be bettered. Or so we thought, until the star of the show made its appearance – startlingly fresh white squid served with a sweetly piquant sauce on a bed of chickpea stew. Squid can often be bland and rubbery but this was a triumph.

The atmosphere was warm and cosy and the room was bustling with tourists, Europhiles and locals, but we noticed plenty of affluent-looking bankers, too. I’m not surprised; the wine list is droolinducing: less of a list and more of a guide – with a contents page and 25 pages peppered with information, quotes and (dreadful) puns. The Peter Sellers sound-alike will advise you and the stopped clock on the wall might lure you into whiling away a whole afternoon, but we stuck to our guns and a single glass of garnet-coloured Kir.

Because of the actress’s predilection for pudding, we ordered two: a Sicilian lemon posset and poires belle Hélène. The posset was soft and lemony dense in texture – a smooth, palate cleanser of a dish – but the Hélène was outstanding. I’ve eaten it many times in Paris but never better than this. Flaked almonds are scattered over a precisely poached pear, while a scoop of ice cream melts slowly into a pool of intense chocolate sauce. Bliss.

We left feeling warm and replete but not stuffed. Given the current rate of the euro against the pound, I foresee a slowing down in travel as people stay at home. But if you still hanker after a genuine and affordable taste of France, take a trip to Terroirs. If you’ll excuse the pun, it’s di-vine.