I'm trapped in the past. I still expect neighbourhood Italian restaurants to be in a basement with plush, red banquettes, lit by candles in chianti bottles, and staffed by career waiters who pull out the chair for you and snap the napkins into your lap like Madame Whiplash.

You'd be forgiven for thinking I don't get out much, because we all know such places are as dead and dusty as the fondue set, and twice as cheesy. However, gasping for air at street level on the top end of Kentish Town Road in north London, which, admittedly, may not be many folks' idea of destination dining, Pane Vino is a solid, simple, neighbourhood restaurant that ticks all the right culinary boxes, while avoiding the hellish decoration clichés of yesteryear.

First, there is not a dripping candle in sight - the low lighting is provided by a dimmer switch - the tablecloths and napkins are paper; and, though the welcome is warm, no one pulls out a chair for you because there isn't enough space to exhale, let alone flick a napkin. You must take courage, and a deep breath, when you shimmy between the tables and don't - as I did - knock your neighbour's breadbasket into his lap.

The decor is unpretentious, banquettes are upholstered in Paul Smith stripes (to match the shirts of the trendy north London clientele) and the walls are magnolia (so as not to clash). Meanwhile, the important part, the food - which is southern Italian with a strong Sardinian bias - is robust, accomplished and has something of a cult following.

Run by an Italian couple, Stefania Berdini and chef Marco Cicu, who comes from Sardinia, the restaurant is a real family business aiming to offer traditional, "mother's style" home cooking. A cousin works in the kitchen and they "import someone from the family" whenever they need help. On the frenetic Saturday night that we visited, the chef was even seen to wait tables.

Food includes menu old-timers such as fresh, not frozen, calamari fritti and spaghetti vongole, but also introduces some typical Sardinian dishes, many of them based around bottarga - salted, pressed and dried roe of grey mullet. According to Stefania, this was traditionally the food of poor fisherman who sold the fish but kept the roe, because nobody wanted it, then preserved it for the winter.

We tried antipasto Sardo - which consisted of translucent, golden slivers of bottarga, pecorino, salami and an intense tomato purée lively enough to entice even those who are all sundried out. This was served on the divine, supermodel-slim carta da musica Sardinian bread.

We followed with linguine served with a sauce of bottarga and garlic. Surprisingly, the flavour is subtle and not at all fishy. This, together with the malloreddus alla campidanese - traditional semolina gnocchi - is said to be a favourite of chef Giorgio Locatelli, who lives locally and is a regular customer.

"Have you eaten at his place?" asked Stefania, plaintively, as she whisked away another round of plates. "I never get a chance - I'm always here," she said, a blur, disappearing towards the kitchen to fetch pizzas the size of truck wheels. My husband was following her progress like the Bisto Kid.

I nudged my Mr Excitement away from pizza towards the daily special - linguine with sea urchin; it came as a small, almost caviar-like portion of urchin that was enthroned on a bruschetta perched on the pasta and swathed in a light seafood sauce. Meanwhile, never one to pass up the fiddly labours of another, I had the deep-fried courgette flower - a crisp cushion stuffed with ricotta and basil, perfect in every way except for the barrage of forks that suddenly pointed in the direction of my plate.

I was the only one of our party of four to attempt a main course - grilled sea bream coated in semolina and stuffed with herbs. Served with a navvy's portion of new potatoes and blanched spinach, I took one look at the plate and blanched myself. The fish was faultless and, when divided, biblically, around the table, remained but a cartoon bone stripped clean with a doleful eye staring at me reproachfully. It didn't work. I then had the homemade tiramisu, which was punch-drunk, creamy and definitely not on Atkins.

You're looking at around £30 a head for three courses and coffee, with the wine list starting modestly at £12 and settling comfortably around the mid-20s. You're also looking very closely at your neighbour. The restaurant is sufficiently intimate that when adjoining tables ask for the salt or water, you find yourself, programmed by years of children, automatically giving them yours. When our neighbours left, they said they hoped I was feeling better after my spectacular choking fit. I didn't mention that little episode, did I?