Apologies for the terrible headline, but no apologies for the views. T and I are just leaving York after the weekend. Lovely city, loud geese, one of Canada’s more underhand gifts to the UK: damn you, Trudeau. It’s the weekend of the last Six Nations rugby, so to be fair the geese along the river Foss are merely competing with the gaggle of Woodford RFC rugby boys on tour (pink shirted, Wetherspoon-loving, dodgy kneed fellas – what’s with the silver trays, guys?).

Anyway, after a wander round the Shambles and YorkMinster and along the 2000 year old wall, and a discussion on the advent of archaeology (“what did people think of relics before archaeology?”), we came back to Foss Street, where we spent the majority of the weekend (I mean this literally) dining at Loch Fyne, a fish restaurant, and a chain, we know, but one with some commendable sustainability polices. Which stretched to printing their menus and marketing material on 100% recycled paper. More on this later.

First night, we had the Moules mariniere with frites, obviously, for starters; then six oysters, freshly shucked, tabasco loaded, chewed not swiftly swallowed, like some critic on Radio 4 who fancies himself is suggesting is the only way to oyst (and if that’s not a real word, there’s a problem with this world). They were chewy and fat, and we thought reasonably priced (£9 for half a dozen). Then I had the fish pie, a fine smoky texture not overloaded with potato. T had the fillet of bream with roasted fennel and seasonal vegetables with a rough mustard sauce. Lively, but well balanced. Which could also be said for the rock’n'roll waiting staff, particularly the guy with the chops (sideburns, not pork) who delivered the plates with a Converse-footed swagger and a lingering wink. Turns out he was French. Makes sense.

Second night we tried to find another restaurant we liked. York’s big on religion, small on cuisine, we found. If only Jesus had done more with the water and wine, imagine all the millenia-old restaurants we’d have now rather than those old houses of abandoned prayer (yes, we’d have sauce wars still, fighting in the name of plum jus rather than christianity or islam, but that’s hungry hippos (aka humans) for you). So second night we had a half bottle of the champagne to wash down a dozen oysters, this time (£16) followed by the Chablis (a bit light, really, for the food). T had the tiger prawns, which were finger-licking lushes out for a big pink party, except the tomato relish was tepid and a poor chaperone for the flaneurs of the seabed. I had the smoked salmon, cajun spiced. It was thick and meaty, some of the nicest salmon I’ve had recently. And I’ve had a bellyful.

So overall, a Fyne (haha) 7.5/10. But it is worth pointing out the very friendly, serviceable atmosphere, and the sustainable fishing policies (or as T’s brother Sean says, “it’s catching, not fishing”), as well as T’s successful negotiation of the tempting T-bone. She’s trying to convert to the church of pescaterianism. And doing well, god bless her cockles. Except for the hogroast sandwich for Saturday lunch from Dave’s. But getting there.