Marina O'Loughlin - Wednesday, January 23, 2008

For The Duke of Wellington has restored my faith in the maligned
gastropub with a meal of serious quality served by a bunch of young
people who know exactly what they're doing – principally chef Fred
Smith, a proper grown-up talent.
We ate silky pork rillettes; brave, 45-day-hung Ginger Pig steak with
fabulous, rustly chips; a moist-fleshed, crisp-skinned guinea fowl on
a sultry bed of deep, dark cavolo nero and lentils flanked by a
magnificently tumescent Toulouse sausage; tagliatelle with real bite
and oodles of dill-scented lobster.
Cheeses were in perfect nick and a light but calorific sticky
toffee pudding was Bunterishly good. The off-Marylebone location is
a gem, the room is fun and funky, with rickety tables and
no pretensions.