It's been a tough week, and I'm feeling as old as Sir Menzies Campbell. The embattled, geriatric Liberal leader looks like he needs cheering up, and so do I. We head for Smiths of Smithfield, very much a local for KB as he lives round the corner, and one of our old favourites. This is about familiarity and comfort food.

As we walk down Charterhouse Street, it strikes me that Smithfield is in danger of becoming another Shoreditch. The street is packed with young revellers, spilling out of the stuffed bars which seem to be popping up all the time here. The crowd is at its largest around Smiths itself. The restaurant we are heading to is on the top floor of this multi-storied venue, which has a very large bar on the ground floor. We have to navigate our way past enormous and suspicious-looking bouncers and a packed room of boozers before we get to the tiny lift which takes us to the top floor.

All of this might explain much about the fact that Smiths of Smithfield does not have a Michelin Star.

I know it's not for us to peer into the minds of the high and mighty at 'Le Guide', but Smiths must have a fair case. It has the best organic meat from a handful of first class suppliers, the wine list has some very special treats, and the dining room itself must have one of the finest views of the old City, as you sit staring across the rooftops of the Smithfield meat market to St Paul's Cathedral. But first impressions matter, and they aren't good at Smiths on a busy Friday night.

Smiths is an odd mixture from top to bottom, a culinary Tower of Babel. At breakfast and lunch, the downstairs bar is full of local City workers munching on old-fashioned working class grub; one flight up, there is a canteen filled with young couples who want a good dinner without spending hundreds of pounds. And on the top floor, there is this excellent City restaurant which is usually filled with investment bankers and their clients, advertising executives and East End 'business men' in all-black outfits. The creative genius behind Smiths is John Torode, the so-called 'celebrity chef'. Torode seems to be a much lower-profile chap than the ghastly individuals who are never off the telly; and he is responsible for the menu we have come to love.

Once upstairs, all is an oasis of calm. The room is only a third full at 8 o'clock on this Friday night, but that means all of the tables on the balcony have been taken. Damn. It's a perfect September evening for being out there. Never mind, we have a good table just inside, and I'm feeling pretty good.

We order the wine first. It's a 1995 Bordeax, a St Julien Chateau Talbot. On first tasting, a subtle blend of fruits are released onto the palate. It's balanced very well, not too heavy, not too light - perfect for our order.

Monsieur Torode is very good at seasonal dishes. There is a splash of autumn across this menu. I have a delicious pea soup, while KB has warm smoked eel which he describes as comfort food.

For the main, we both have one of our old favourites: Venison Wellington, medium rare, with seasonal vegetables. This is one of my top ten dishes at London restaurants, and it did not disappoint again last night.

The decanted Chateau Talbot changes subtly as we move through the courses. After a while, there is a flowery bouquet which wasn't there before.  This is a very nice vintage.

For desert, I had a rich chocolate torte, while KB had a raspberry souffle with a rosewater sorbet on the side. We both had a glass of Australian dessert wine, Noble One. It's fresh and vibrant, as you might expect, and definitely worth a tasting.

The restaurant was nearly full by the time we finished, although it was kind of annoying that they let some drinkers from downstairs onto the terrace.

I'm feeling much better as we drift home. I glance across to the deserted Smithfield meat market. It has a colourful past. This is where our murderous monarchs used to burn heretics at the stake. Now the worst you'll get on this street is an overcooked steak - but not on the top floor of Smiths.

You can find more information on Smiths of Smithfield here.