Cafe Cecilia in Hackney, east London, put to the test the question that strangers often ask me, which is: “So, can you get a table anywhere at any time?” The answer is complex, but, for shorthand, I always reply: “Yes!”, when I really mean: “Usually yes, but sometimes no, depending on myriad variables, including the ‘hotness’ of the establishment in question, the pliability of its maître d’ and, of course, my own cunning while trying to inveigle my way in.” For now, let’s concentrate on hotness, which has nothing to do with its suitability for the peri-menopausal, but rather the almost tangible fervour that surrounds certain new openings. Cafe Cecilia, which recently appeared just off Broadway Market on a relatively charmless side road close to an old gasworks, is run by Max Rocha, a chef with connections to the River Cafe and St John, and heavy links to the fashion industry, with both his father and sister, John and Simone, being much-loved designers. This type of buzz inevitably leads to all 15 or so tables being booked up for weeks in advance, while every lunchtime another tempting array of social media reports seep into the ether, showing us the likes of pig’s head, sage and potato pie, cuttlefish with orzo, pork braised in milk with fresh coco beans, raspberry galette and Guinness by the can. I hope Cafe Cecilia can forgive me for pointing out its hotness, because in the past I’ve found that some restaurants blanch at this elusive, sparkly tag. It’s a bit like telling a top model how ruddy gorgeous they are, only to be greeted with a, “Well, yes, but I have very serious thoughts about the Tibet Autonomous Region, too.” Hot restaurants do not want to be merely hot and filled to the rafters with hot-restaurant chasers. No, they want to be respected and loved for their skills, the provenance of their ingredients and their authentically influenced recipes made with modern twists. They want to be hot in meaningful ways, not merely because Doris from the Emotional Support Squirrels did her latest Rolling Stone interview there. Anyway, what is for certain is that “hot” restaurants such as Cafe Cecilia do not need critics to love them, so me sweeping in on the off-chance of a free table (the one restaurants always have up their sleeve just in case Barack Obama and his security detail are passing by) was not going to cut it. Instead, I booked almost six weeks in advance, then pondered who to bestow this magical treat on, before settling on my old friend Dave, who is not a hot-restaurant chaser at all. I found him sitting in a white, concretey room with plain brown tables and no tablecloths – in fact, no decor of note whatsoever – perusing a list of pig’s head terrine, crisp fried sage leaves with anchovy, and deep-fried bread-and-butter pudding with cold custard, almost as if it were just a normal room, and we were not, in fact, behind the velvet rope and living our best London lives right there and then. Obviously, it would make a fantastic denouement if Cafe Cecilia turned out to be a terrifically dull dud, but it’s not. It’s a calm, self-effacing space with lovely staff and a menu that allows Rocha to lean on his Irish heritage via the likes of mussels steamed in cider and bacon, Guinness bread ice-cream and barmbrack with a heap of freshly churned butter. Notions of Ireland, and of St John, were alive in Rocha’s ham hock terrine, which was the piggiest slice of rough-and-ready paté I have witnessed in my lifetime. For the more squeamish, I’d recommend a balm-like plate of silky agnolotti filled with goat’s curd and Fellows Farm squash and swimming in a glossy, buttery sauce, which, at £13.50, is a far cry from River Cafe prices. A whole plaice, grilled to crispness, but with soft, white flesh, came festooned with steamed clams and a side of pink fir potatoes, which are my very favourite spud, or at least were until last year, when my attempts to grow these pretty, nutty vessels of joy resulted in sad, stubby bullets and a lot of sulking. At Cafe Cecilia, they have deep-fried pink firs on the menu, as well as peculiarly delightful plates of deep-fried sage and anchovy fritti, which you may love or loathe, but will certainly never forget. Cafe Cecilia isn’t really a cafe, even if its opening hours until recently – short breakfast sittings and lunchtimes, and only now beginning dinner service on Fridays and Saturdays – give the place a homespun edge, rather than the feel of a new rumbling hospitality juggernaut. Even so, I have a sense that it’s really only just getting started on its path to being one of London most serious restaurants. Hotness comes and goes, but genuinely very good can last for ever. Cafe Cecilia Canal Place, 32 Andrews Road, London E8, 020-3478 6726. Open lunch Weds-Sun, noon-3pm; dinner Fri & Sat only, 6-9pm (last orders). From about £40 a head for three courses, plus drinks and service. Episode five of the second series of Grace’s Comfort Eating podcast is released on 23 November. Listen here or wherever you get your podcasts.