Antiche Sere, Turin, Piedmont

You just know, the moment you cross the threshold of this backstreet osteria, that it will be good. The two wood-panelled dining rooms – one which you step directly into from the front door, and one tucked away at the back – are simply furnished. Starched lace curtains hang from the windows. The tables are laid with plain cotton cloths, and cutlery and glass tumblers denote each place setting. There are no pictures on the walls, no unnecessary adornment. Nothing to detract from the serious business of good eating.

We arrived at seven, to be beckoned smilingly in by one of the three slim and handsome young women who run the place. Had we booked? No. Then we could have a table, but only until nine thirty. That would be fine. But now, she said with charming assertiveness, we must go for a walk, because the restaurant did not start serving until eight. Having walked a mile to get here, and sensing that this would be worth the wait, we obeyed and patiently sipped beer for an hour in a bar down the street.

Offered a choice of tables when we returned, we opted for one in the front room, better to watch the comings and goings. The menus, written on thick orange sugar paper, proposed just a few dishes for each course. At our hostess's advice I ordered a modestly priced Barbera from the list of mainly local bottles. First came an unexpected appetiser from the chef – a salami of pork and boiled potatoes, soft and pink, with a texture something like a sopressa, but coarser, and earthily raw when spread onto the crusty bread of which we had a basketful, and followed by a mouthful of wine.

It was partway through my next course, gnocchetti with sausage, and after a further couple of glasses of wine, that the word sublime came to mind. It was simply the most appropriate description of the moment's experience. The gnocchetti melted away in the mouth, the sausage sufficient, though there was barely half a sausage-worth of meat, to lend fennely flavour and knobbly texture, and a scant juice. Outside it was black. Inside, the restaurant had now swelled with diners, mostly Italian and seemingly known to the hosts, and was warm and bright, filled with a heady mix of contented chatter and smiles. At regular intervals more hopeful customers entered, to be told the restaurant was full. How about tomorrow? Sorry, fully booked. We'd been lucky to squeeze in at all. The three women moved about the restaurant, taking orders and serving food and wine, with a warmth and attractiveness that was as easy on the spirit as on the eye.

Next, a thick slab of pot-roasted veal, succulent and tender, and rosemary roast potatoes. Then panna cotta and Piedmontese bonnet. We were invited to try a special Slow Food dessert (we were here for the Salone del Gusto) – mandarin ice cream from Sicily, served with a glass of local Asti. Then coffee. And a grappa. It was heading towards the appointed hour of nine thirty, when we would turn into pumpkins if we hadn't vacated our table. But I couldn't have eaten or drunk another thing anyway. We paid a ludicrously good value bill (the ice cream, the Asti and the grappa were complimentary) and I shook the hand of the handsome dark-haired woman in thanks. I wondered about a kiss, but decided it would be presumptuous.

We walked the mile back to our bed and breakfast, still surrounded, it seemed, by the warm, happy glow of the osteria. A bit like the old Ready Brek ad.

Osteria Antiche Sere, Via Cenischia, 9, 10139 Torino

Tel 011 3854347

Can't find a website of their own, but I'm sure those three young women are too occupied serving customers to worry about such things. Who needs a web site anyway, when you serve such good food to so many people? (This picture, by the way, is not of the osteria: I was too busy eating to think about a photograph. It's just a little piece of Torino that I glimpsed and liked.)