I never set out to write this blog in order to critique meals I'd eaten, or to recommend or damn places you might consider going to. My main reason for this is that there are plenty of people doing this already. If that wasn't reason enough, I might also add there are people doing that particular job very well. I haven't the inclination to go to new restaurants, to follow their PR statements, and to queue around the block for the latest burger joint, and besides, I don't live in Manchester. Sheffield is already a small enough pond with competent noise on social media telling you where to eat, and if you're into 'fine dining' then there are plenty of people with more experience than me of such establishments who are willing to ruin an expensive evening by taking a camera phone along. It just so happens I went to a good restaurant tonight by mistake.

I had planned to go to Yankees, a place that did burgers and fries on the Sundays when, as a child, my parents couldn't be bothered to cook. I'd recently returned from an American holiday where, because I'd spent a week in Vegas spending every available cent on the dinner table as opposed to the roulette, I simplistically thought a dose of meaty Americana would fill the yawning gap in my soul. I'd already heard of Smith & Baker. It occupies the same premises where an earlier version of the Richard Smith business model had attempted eastern no frills and sticky fingers Yankee trash with equal measures of failure. I've already mentioned that gastronomically, Sheffield is a small pond. Clinging to this watery analogy, Smithy is a big fish. 

I don't mean this to come across as faint praise. Few people have stood the test of time in same way, which is in all likelihood down to a mixture of business savvy and being a damn good cook. Most of Sheffield's restaurateurs fall at both hurdles. After a pretty good run, with its pitfalls and failures, it seems to me as though here is a chef who wants to open a small scale bistro style quality restaurant with a small number of diners with an emphasis on fresh gear, a constantly changing menu and solid technique. 

My favourite thing about this place is that it is so hard to say what makes it good. It is not one thing, but it is many things. I can't remember who it was, I think it was Bill Bruffort quoting Paul Bocuse when he said ' it's easy to be a chef, you just have to be perfect and fast'. It's just as easy to run a restaurant, you just have to second guess all your customers, anticipate what they want, serve them with courtesy and be in seven places at once. Easy. I have no idea if the staff at Smith &Baker are capable of this, because it was pretty quiet when I went, but I give them a good chance. Anywhere that has clearly got enough of the details right isn't  likely to fall down when it comes to service, but as I plan to go back, I'll let you know.

As it happens, despite not meaning to go there, I accidentally spent fifty quid on my dinner. I consider this to be a very good sign. I also didn't know that I'd been there for nigh in two hours. For me,the mark of a really good meal is that you forget things. You forget how long you've been there, you forget where you were supposed to be instead. You forget to stop spending money. By far the most endearing thing, certainly for me, is when people forget their table manners. It's a rare kind of joy when you can pick up you soup bowl and drink loudly with liquid running over your chin, or lick your Sunday dinner plate clean. Never trust someone who won't gnaw a pork chop from its bone or eat the fat.

What does this have to do with somewhere I had a good dinner? Well, practically nothing, except this is that sort of place that despite its pricey(ish) menu and decent cocktail list, it's not somewhere you should feel bad about licking butter off the knife, but then again, the more I'm paying, the more entitled I feel to lick the cutlery. Did I mention the cooking? It's really very accomplished. A very good  assiette of raw salmon terrine, accompanied by a very lightly cured gravadlax, with salmon roe and something that looked like caviare (but can't be been)  atop three perfectly cut slices of radish and two very thinly sliced and just al dente slices of pink beetroot. This is the sort of trick only a kitchen on its mettle can turn out.

There was only one glaring error, actually the sort of schoolboy mistake you wouldn't expect from such a menu. On a set prix fixee of three courses, the vegetarian starter and main featured Jerusalem artichoke as a main ingredient. This is cruel and wrong, because I like to order vegetarian things when I know they'll be properly cooked. Delicious as they may be, Jerusalem artichokes (which have about as much to do with Jerusalem as they are artichokes) are a worry to the digestive system at the best of times.  Despite my hatred of this pretender to the vegetable kingdom, it's pathetic pretence, this is still an excellent menu. It's the type of cooking I most admire. Simple bistro cooking with enough bells and whistles, but essentially technically sound execution and flawless service. I couldn't ask more from a restaurant.