Gone are the days of warm leathery beef on a hotplate down at the local botulism-riddled carvery. These days Britain loves gastropubs – cosy boltholes with blackboard menus showcasing the finest rib-sticking stodge known to man.

In gastropubs, (which are usually called things like ‘The Blacksmith’s Toenail’ or ‘The Pig’s Inner Ear’) you don’t have to order Betty’s hotpot and a packet of Planters peanuts off a cardboard nudie lady to have a good time.

Ok, so they might be a bit pretentious, but they’ve got sausage and mash and chips stacked up like Jenga, and a chef who has never been to prison. What’s not to like? They have 5 stars in travel guides and their fine food and wine can be enjoyed in rustic, comfortable surroundings, rather than in a large, thickly carpeted barn off an A-road with a fruit machine and a massive telly.

In fact, they’re so nice, you can even take your gran on special occasions. And the gravy actually moves. All hail the modern gastropub and all who eat in her – mine’s a pint of craft beer and some locally sourced scallops. Fancy!

Writes Lucy Sweet

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