Some restaurant folk have a habit of opening restaurants I’d recommend to nobody. They know who they are. Those huge, hulking, fancy openings, always but always adorned with huge, imported chandeliers and calfskin banquettes. Pretty to look at, and they’ll give you a table for eight for Susan’s birthday and serve you pumpkin ravioli, but also guarantee you a soulless, lacklustre experience. And then you have the likes of Tollington’s. This culinary conundrum of a place is a new fish joint in Finsbury Park, north London, that’s run by people who couldn’t do any of the aforementioned tedious, showy blandness if their livelihoods depended on it. Mind you, I’m inclined to steer you away from Tollington’s, too, though for different, entirely selfish reasons. Much as I did with the same team’s earlier venture, the Plimsoll, an impudently shabby, utterly wonderful old boozer a mile down the road. Tollington’s, you see, lives inside an old-school 1970s fish-and-chip shop, even though the space has apparently had a re-style. Whatever they’ve done to the place, however, it’s clearly had only the lightest of rejigs. Comfy it ain’t. Chandeliers: zero. The stainless-steel chippy counter – an artefact handed down from a previous Tollington’s incarnation – is still in full use. Glass cabinets brim with good stuff. And chef/co-owner Ed McIlroy serves up grilled john dory, sardines from the plancha, and devilled crab and cod cheeks through a gap in the counter where chips were once wrapped. So, would I send you here? Well, yes, but with caveats. This tiny, wonky, Haringey-meets-San Sebastián pintxo bar is already plenty hectic enough with customers embracing its hell-bent peculiarity. They love that the seating is just a few tables in a back room, with a shelf running the length of one wall. There, a throng of folk tuck into beauvale cheese with quince on hunks of bread and drink vermouth, fino or Estrella on tap (or Vichy Catalan mineral water for those who are driving), all while standing up and tumbling out on to the pavement outside. These tiny touches of the Costa del Haringey signify so much. The Tollington’s boys themselves have never claimed that this is a pintxo joint of the sort that you might stumble across in northern Spain – but if you know, you know. It’s there in the casually slung but excellent produce, in the plates of Basque chistorra sausage fried with tomato, and in the abrasive pickled anchovies doused with good oil; it’s also there in the fat, dumpy, deep-fried balls of fine devilled crab. And it’s all served in a setting that screams of its own culinary history. A thousand British restaurateurs have died trying to harness the magic of a hake, flan and txakolí joint in Donostia old town, before ending up in a whirlwind of crap meatballs with garlic bread tapas and tables for nine. In other words, call Tollington’s a pinxto bar in much the same way as you’d feed a unicorn sugar lumps: do so discreetly or it might run away. Tollington’s has also earned the spurious honour of giving me without doubt the greatest chips I’ve ever eaten. Hands down the best. No quibbles. Rarely have I wanted to embrace a chef, but these chips are emotional. I shall talk of these chips on my deathbed – these hot, fresh, fat, crisp chips fried in beef dripping and served with a heroic dollop of homemade allioli and a mild, sweet, silky bravas sauce. These are chips that defy sharing. They have all the punch of a 1970s trip to Scarborough with Ferran Adrià in charge of the ketchup. That said, Tollington’s menu, other than a ripe tomato salad and a truly great green salad with soft-boiled egg, is mainly fish: raw bream with flat peaches or grilled sardines with blackened skins and whacked on to plates. Cod cheeks come with that delightful stewed red pepper mush the Spanish do so well, monkfish comes in a complex sauce of capers and raisins, and smoked eel features in a light, fragrant tortilla. For meat lovers, there is pork neck with plums and onions or beef with fresh melon. Dessert-wise, there is just a flan – one of those obscene, wobbly, creamy, custardy ones with a honey-brown top and swimming in a caramel pool of sticky loveliness. This is some of the best cooking in London right now. My big fear is that the Tollington’s boys will eventually cave in and open a proper fancy place, complete with tablecloths, varnished floors and all, inside something as pedestrian as a real restaurant. Yes, that would be a huge win for anyone hoping to eat McIlroy’s food in comfort, but for now, while he and his team are entirely off the leash, this unruly bunch are the British food world’s biggest trailblazers. Tollington’s 172 Tollington Park, London N4 (no phone or website; @tollingtons.fishbar). Open Weds-Fri 6-11pm, Sat noon-3pm, 6-11pm, Sun noon-5pm. From about £35 a head à la carte, plus drinks and service