Tramontana Brindisa, London EC2, restaurant review You simply cannot put a price on prescience like that. A quarter of a century later, her business, Brindisa, has grown beyond importing and selling stuff in foodie markets to include four restaurants, of which this is the latest. Anyway, I took the basic precaution of inviting two unimpeachably impartial Telegraph colleagues, taking care to rebut any potential charge of nepotism by ensuring that only one of them happened to be the proprietor's sister. Thankfully it was the member of the party with no blood ties to its management who opined that this is an outstanding restaurant. For one thing, it smells great in a herby, toasty sort of way; and it looks even better than it smells. At the front, opposite a raised wooden wine rack stretching some 50 feet, the cooks work behind a long steel bar prettily adorned with hanging tomatoes and sausages, with stools for those who like watching people sweat while they eat, while the room spreads out at the back on to a terraced garden. Surprisingly packed on a rainy Monday night, it hummed to the tune of the cool, young, wannabe Manhattanites of east London relishing their grub. The cuisine (and an intriguing wine list which avoids such usual suspects as riojas and albariños) is that of the Spanish Mediterranean, from the north of Catalonia to the Balearics, and while some of the myriad dishes we shared were familiar, others were not. A plate of charcuterie included loin of pork and chorizo along with the sweetest, nuttiest ibérico ham I've ever tasted, the pig lent extra savour by the recollection that this site used to house a vegan restaurant. Padrón peppers were fantastically fresh and juicy, patatas bravas came with a fine potent aioli, here Hispanicised as alioli, and mushrooms fried in garlic had a luscious but properly subdued hint of black truffle oil. Tempura of artichoke was immaculately crunchy, and delectable anchovies sat on sweet biscuit to balance the saltiness. "One of the things I really love about eating like this," said the table's neutral observer on the arrival of sardines with cherry tomatoes, "is how delicious things you've completely forgotten ordering keep turning up." Almost the best of the tapas was the simplest thing on offer, toasted sourdough brushed first with garlic and then tomato; though the gold went to croquetas which oozed a glorious, creamy béchamel sauce. It paid testament to chef Alberto Torres's remarkable lightness that even after such a vast amount of food we were moved to tear into another two dishes, both of a tempting, russetty deep brown, each served in its own little iron pan. Fideua de sepia was a mixture of cuttlefish and prawns with more of that alioli, which the waitress mixed into crispy little shreds of short pasta - a sumptuous dish built on an intense rockfish stock. Just as delectable was a cumin-infused mound of bomba rice with a disc of black pudding and pork ribs. Somehow after that lot we managed at least to toy with a selection of superb cheeses. The service was informed and friendly, though you would hardly expect seething insolence once our cover was blown, not least by the owner popping over to talk us through the glories of this region's cuisine with the perfectionist zeal already evident from the food. To test the place more rigorously, I went back a week later for lunch, with a highly knowledgeable foodie friend, who also raved about many dishes, and particularly another croqueta, this time cleverly attached to mussel shells. Though we remained unclocked, it was every bit as good as the first time. No one has done more to proselytise the splendours of Spanish ingredients and cooking than Linton, and my guilt at having failed to talk her out of this doomed venture at last begins to fade. It is with an entirely uncorrupted heart that I recommend Tramontana, though its proprietor is duly reminded that cheques are not encouraged, and that used, non-sequential notes, preferably fifties, are preferred.