I had to google Le Réveillon. I say ‘had’; I actually didn’t have to do anything, I was just looking for a bit of context on the lunch. And when I say Google, it was nothing really of the sort. I typed in the words and stopped one-third of the way down when it said it was a French Christmas Eve celebration, but really Christmas Day given it starts after midnight. A feast of snails, foie gras, oysters, champagne, and dancing sexily to the greatest hits of Edith Piaf whilst doing mounds of class A drugs and hanging out of windows smoking cigarettes with the balance of a Circ du Soleil acrobat. The last bit may have been made up. I tuned out after getting to the oysters bit.

Anyway, it’s a party, so Canary & Kitchen are doing that much right. They have tinsel and a disco ball and a glass of champers served in a Baby Cham glass. There are peas dehydrated and dusted in enough garlic to make you consider they could be French until you see that Michael is more Del Boy than Un Garçon, and his charming partner Toni is from the Canary isles. It’s how they got one half of the name. Of course I had no idea.

The whole thing is so wonderfully kitsch I should have worn Santa socks to match the hats we are given. Canapés of chicken satay skewers and figs stuffed with goats cheese and bacon, drizzled in heavily reduced balsamic are big intense bites full of flavour. More playful is the cheese and pineapple reimagined as a cube of paneer with a pineapple and jalapeño jam, topped with a mini poppadom. This isn’t refined cooking, nor is it supposed to be. It’s dinner with its tongue firmly in its cheek in a ten-seater restaurant with a toilet dedicated to Elvis Presley. Just don’t die on the shitter until you’ve eaten all of it.

The turkey bit is my favourite bit, if only because they do a great job of making it not taste like the droll, dried bird it is. A spoonful of turkey mince dressed in soy and fish sauce, a little like larb without the rice powder or attitude, comes with pickled sprouts that add much needed acidity. And a meatball – or tare as it should be called – fatty and brooding, glazed in sake and mirin and coated in crispy chicken skin. There’s cheese courses. A beautiful vol-au-vent of blue cheese with an apple chutney at the base, some whipped feta with honey and pitta breads, and a bruschetta of smashed peas with Parmesan. Frank Sinatra plays over the speakers. Everyone is having a wonderful time.

We’re back to ‘starters & soups’ in reasons unbeknownst to everyone but the French, with ham hock and pickled walnuts on toast, and a garlic soup that contains as many cloves as reasons for Paul Simon to leave his lover. And then, finally, with my breath ponging and my belt bulging, we hit main. Confit chicken thigh, another garlicky sauce with bacon and Riesling, and the cheesiest of mash. I don’t finish it because this is a lot of food. Everyone is having a wonderful time.

Dessert is a baked croissant pudding with Nutella glaze and cherry ice cream that they package up for us to take away, followed by dates filled with peanut butter, a glass of PX sherry, and a little tart of something sweet that I was too pissed to remember eating. And before anyone moans about me being pissed, the corkage of £25 per table lends itself to the champagne, whites, reds, and sweet wines we turned up with and drank and drank and drank. I wasn’t going to write about this; it was a celebration with Sophie’s parents, they paid the £99 per head for the food, and there is only a couple of weeks left of this menu. But then again I really love Canary & Kitchen, they support my beloved StreetSmart, and as of this morning have opened up their tiny restaurant to a few more dates of Le Rèveillon. If you get the chance I strongly suggest you get in the Christmas spirit and book. I can absolutely guarantee you’ll have a wonderful time.