If you have a favourite neighbourhood restaurant, give it some love | Rachel Cooke

One of the great blessings of my life is that I live only a 10-minute walk from one of the best local restaurants in London (perhaps the best Italian restaurant). Admittedly, its reputation, ongoing greatness and – here’s the real marvel – fairly priced menu mean it’s sometimes tricky to bag a table, even if you’re a faithful, polite and grateful (grovelling) local like me; if one mark of an ideal neighbourhood restaurant has to do with spontaneity, then I suppose in this sense, it’s not entirely perfect.

But still, its existence seems like a kind of miracle to me, even as it prepares to celebrate its 15th birthday. The luck of it! Just to walk by it on the scurry from the station to my door induces a rising sense of happiness.

I’m talking, if you’ve haven’t guessed, about Trullo, which opened its doors in June 2010 on Highbury Corner in Islington, the brainchild of chef Tim Siadatan and his business partner, Jordan Frieda. At the time the site was, to my eyes, desperately unpromising – none of the restaurants that preceded its arrival ever quite worked – and its spaces on the rather awkward side (the two dining rooms are far from perfect rectangles even now).

Thanks to this, I presumed it was doomed right until the moment I first ate there, at which point I began to feel anxious that its very wondrousness was the thing that would condemn it. How could a place so absolutely right possibly survive in a city that has a way of brutally clubbing such loveliness to death? And even if it did, wouldn’t standards soon slip? To truly love a restaurant, after all, is to live with the knowledge that it will one day break your heart. But so far, so good.

Happy birthday, Trullo! It’s harder to write of things you adore than those you hate, as any critic knows, but with a restaurant, you can power through a checklist in the first instance.

I like the smiling, super-competent staff and the small, semi-open kitchen that feels more accident than statement (it has a rope-powered lift that connects to somewhere below, and I like to watch muscular people in whites yanking on it). I like the old-fashioned half-curtains on the windows, the soft candlelight, and the fact you can order a carafe if you don’t want a bottle.

Above all I like the food, which is properly, even severely, Italian but also comes with the odd, St John-inflected British top note. The pasta, made where you can see it, is so good: eggy, obediently curled, always al dente. The beef-shin ragu, glossy as a patent handbag, is irresistible. Sometimes, there are brown shrimps. The current head chef, Ed Grace, under chef-owner Conor Gadd, has a way with grilled fish, meat and slightly challenging vegetables. His cooking is straightforward and yet it’s alchemical too: the result of thought and skill, made by someone who likes salt and fat as well as kale and chickpeas. It’s straightforward, confident food for hungry, non-picky but discerning people (I’m flattering myself here): a menu of stalwarts, boosted by upstarts.

Part of the trick of it is that when new dishes appear, they’re instant classics, the kind you’ll fantasise about later, when you’re broke and eating sausage and mash at home. Lately, the menu has included a pudding of warm ricotta doughnuts served with custard and a dollop of what’s almost blackcurrant jam: a genius double-dip of a treat that’s designed to appeal to the child in you as well as the sophisticate.

Fifteen years. In restaurant terms (they’re a bit like dogs), this is a half century. What, then, is the secret of longevity? First, integrity. Whatever you do, restaurateurs of these islands, let it be its own, sure-footed thing, uncompromising in the right way, and no second-guessing of the customer.

Next, hospitality. I know. Isn’t this the whole point of a restaurant? Amazingly, though, a lot only go through the motions, as you might if a particularly exhausting neighbour had called round for a drink. The perfect restaurant works whether you’re celebrating or commiserating; have planned your visit in advance or got lucky at the last moment; are wearing jeans and trainers or heels and a dress with a flashy label. It is about the embrace – and in the case of Trullo, the always magnificent tagliarini.