There's an art to dining on your own. A rule set, if you will, that must be adhered to. These rules, in conjunction with some ancillary guidelines and recommendations I’ll be suggesting, are there to make you seem less threatening to other diners (and the staff) when you roll in asking for your table for one. It's an art that protects both you and any other diners in the restaurant from feeling unduly anxious. You must be prepared. Otherwise you're the nutcase in the corner putting everybody off his or her green salad.

Remember, as a lone diner you are a figure of ridicule and shame. It's best not to be too visible. That's why you often get the worst seat in the house. Often, it's the staff table and they have to clear the ashtrays, gin and playing cards out of the way before you can sit down. To aid in this it's best not to wear anything too conspicuous. Don't make the rookie error of wearing camouflage and a hood as this often leads to arrest under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.

Restaurant staff will react in one of two ways when you ask for your Table of Solitude. They'll either become instantly chirpy and chatty, breezing you to your table like "we get lonely men in here all the time" or they'll ask you to wait for a bit whilst they clear away the aforementioned gin and watch you for signs that you're going to pull a gun, start drooling or hand out religious tracts. In some restaurants, the head waiter may take care of your personally, with friendly banter and a "something for the weekend" charm. This is done to make sure you pay and don't steal the crockery.

Reading material is a must. An absolute must. If fellow diners see you by yourself reading, it relaxes them. I think a magazine or a newspaper better than a book. A broadsheet or a magazine like New Scientist or Monocle gives the lone diner an air of casual insouciance, a "just catching up with what's going on over a bit of food before I jump in cab to the airport and catch a flight to JFK" sort of vibe. Penthouse, Mayfair or Razzle will not have the same effect and may put more elderly diners around you in peril. A book is a tricky one. It can seem as if you are man of the world or it can give the game away and suggest you might hang out in bell towers. Any sort of self help book is out, as is any sort of military escapade, you know, KillZone Beta Five Bravo: The true story of the SAS from a man who's best mate knew someone who delivered towels to the barracks.

Fiddling with a Smartphone can be good. Interspersed with reading from a magazine is even better. Screaming blue bloody murder because you missed Red Pikachu is bad.

Just sitting humming of pom-poming to yourself is terrifying, especially if you insist on catching people's eyes and nodding creepily. Doubly bad if you smile at other lone diners. They will fear for their lives.

Restaurants with counters are good since it's acceptable to watch the food getting made and pubs are even better since a man enjoying a pint with a bite to eat is a joy to behold.  Like a spring lamb or a rainbow.

This post was written at a table for one in Hiba on Borough High Street, a rather good Lebanese. Please excuse the bits of labneh, falafel and grilled chicken with aioli and harisa strewn across the keyboard. Using a laptop at a restaurant whilst eating dinner, is of course, inexcusable.

I was lucky enough to snag myself a seat at Simon Majumdar's men only beef fest last night. 4 types of prime rib, the best smoked salmon in the world, Argentinian Malbec and the smelliest cheese selection ever seen in a London restaurant. At the end of the evening  the room smelt pretty ripe, a fair few of us were considering vegetarianism and Lost in the Larder had passed out. Read Simon's write up of the proceedings here. Quite an evening.

Old Compton Street is like the Bosphorus, it's a meeting point, a crossroads, a bit like Istanbul without the big mosque and it has seen an equal share of vice, iniquity and violence as well as Greeks, Jews, Turks and Italians. Chinatown spills over from the south and trendoid digital, facilities house Soho and old school, strip joint Soho, jockey for position amongst the gay bars and scattered remnants of Little Italy. Friday night in Soho in full flight is a hilarious melting pot of bemused tourists, terrified out of towners leaving Mammia Mia at the Prince of Wales Theatre, crack dealers,  drunk agency account managers and gay clubbers. Here, opposite the bright lights of Ed's Easy Diner is yakitori and kushiyaki restaurant Bincho. A tiny oasis of near calm in the river of noise and Friday nights in full swing and a favourite of mine after a few.

The slightly Tardis like restaurant is over two floors but I've never made it past the bar seats that run alongside the grills. I love the smell of the fire, watching the guys delicately manage the burning bincho charcoal and turning the skewers with all the concentration of watchmakers. The staff are young with PDA's strapped to their wrists for ordering and exciting hair in an Anime kind of way. It's overpriced, sure, but I'm rarely in there in a thrifty state of mind. The food is good fun and on the whole delicious. Grilled unagi is marshmallow soft and meltingly fishy, the kushiyaki of pork belly and beef rib are perfect with a beer and the crunchy skewered asparagus, a fresh little kick in the haze of wood smoke.

Ever since the League of Gentlemen aired the word "local" has taken on some rather dark and sinister overtones. So, that the Exhibition Rooms won the best new local restaurant accolade from Time Out back in September of last year seems to be a mixed blessing. Local seems to imply that you probably wouldn't go there if it wasn't within staggering distance of your house or that it's run by insane pig nosed serial killers. The latter, of course, is not true, the former might be.

A rummage around Google had me fearful before we'd even set foot in the place. From the slightly hysterical comments I'd read appended to reviews the staff were the rudest in the world. It was as if Bill Hicks and Jerry Sadowitz were running the place. This isn't true, unfortunately. The staff are very nice. Efficient, pleasant and run off their feet. They went careening around the place at foot tilt, sprinting away from the table before finishing their sentences. I got the feeling that they were a man down.

The dining room is reminiscent of The Garrison, without the studied distressing. It's a good space, open and buzzy but not deafening as it fills up. The same cannot be said for the horror show cocktail bar downstairs. A space so unremittingly awful that it inspires awe. It's like a febrile eleven tear olds idea of a cocktail bar. In 1997. Despite this, the bar staff were happily plying middle aged women in animal prints some good looking cocktails, so perhaps it all makes sense after a few measures.

Back in the dining room a ravioli of something red, something goats cheesey arrived. It was undercooked, sprinkled with cold unripe tomato and a jumble of ill considered wild rocket. So far, so average, though the freshly based bread was pleasant enough. Late arriving mains were a competent roasted poussin with a cranberry jus and a disappointingly dry and dense burger. The chips were nice. It was all pleasant enough, to be honest, but dull. I appreciate the pared down menu and the attempt to get back to some basics and I think the pricing is good, but I was waiting to be wowed, comforted or charmed. I wasn't. There are local gastro pubs doing this sort of shtick better, the Dartmouth Arms on a good night, for instance.

With all the restaurants along Westow Hill you'd have thought they would have to fight harder for the accolades at the Exhibition Rooms, but it's obviously found an audience who are happy with the slightly timewarped offering. I'll probably be happy enough to go back in a sort of default kind of way, but it'll need to up its game to become a looked forward to treat.

Back in the pre-history of the internet, in the futuristic year 2000, I worked in the exciting, futuristic world of web development. I was a Multimedia Developer. Exciting and futuristic, huh? I was awesome. I wore box fresh adidas and was an insufferable twat.

Given that we were awesome and hip and did a great deal of happening, our offices were in London Bridge, behind the recently opened Tate Modern. It used to be a power station you know. Awesome! Given that it was London Bridge in the year 2000 there was nothing and nowhere to eat. Borough Market was only open on Friday and Saturday and all you could get there was chorizo sandwiches. One beacon of light, aside from the truly awesome Terry’s Cafe was El Vergel. Ten years ago you simply couldn’t eat any sort of Latin American food in London and yet, here was a tiny, bustling, cantina serving churrascos, soft tacos and delicious salads to hungry multimedia developers.

Happily having recently moved back into the area with work I found El Vergel not only still open, but very much expanded. They’ve moved from the cramped, teeming site I remember on Lant Street, to a cool large open plan space on Webber Street, just off Southwark Bridge Road. I say moved, I mean, just moved, as the space feels slightly unfinished. One end of the large airy space is for takeaways and the other taken up by refectory tables. At lunchtime they were quietly buzzing with today’s equivalent of multimedia developers, with whatever job titles they have now. Webomancers or something. Twice happily, it looks like the quality of the food has survived the intervening ten years even if my hair and waist lines have not.

The menu looks pretty much the same, from what I can remember, a little more complete maybe. The new premises need some breaking in but it was fun to sit near the massive open kitchen and hear the Spanglish banter over the counter. The steak churrasco was a bit of a Proustian moment for me, though it wasn't quite the revelation it once had been, the bread was a little too refrigerated but nit picking aside, a satisfying blast from the past. The accompanying intensity of a glass of fresh passionfruit juice added additional strength to the weak winter sun creeping in through the windows. The tacos looked good, as did the massive salad plates arcing out of the kitchen. Luckily, it looks like El Vergel might survive my nostalgia trip and become a bit of a lunch time favourite once more.