Foreword by Marina O’Loughlin

When I left my job as restaurant critic for the Guardian, I wanted to go out with a bang. And with a solid gold banger. It wasn’t a difficult decision – there was only ever really one choice: off I duly trotted to somewhere I’d been many, many times before, the Quality Chop House. It’s no overstatement to say that I love the place – not something I’m moved to say very often. This is one of those incredibly rare restaurants that simply gets everything right: setting, food, service. (Not forgetting one of the country’s great winelists.) The nature of my job means that I’m governed by a chase after the new; but left to my own devices I’d happily eat here on a weekly basis. Since its early days as ‘Progressive Working Class Caterer’, it has had a chequered career: I’m just old enough to remember Charles Fontaine’s residency, but Charles and his fishcakes only provided a temporary distraction. Over the years, its deliciously spartan interior seemed to withstand every attempt to soften its edges and dilute its austere beauty. Despite this, I felt confident that one day the remarkable space and the right people to run it would find each other.