The Wheatsheaf, Stoke: Alan Cookman's restaurant review

IT'S always gratifying when children of the fast food generation show an interest in the cuisine of strange and distant lands, such as Scotland.

"What's haggis like, dad?" enquired The Son & Heir, assuming with touching confidence that I was some kind of connoisseur.

"Haggis consists of a sheep's heart, liver and lungs, boiled in its own stomach," I told him. "Gross, n'est pas? It was invented by a psychopath called Jock The Ripper."

I think he deduced from these remarks that haggis has never been near the top of my list of favourite ethnic dishes.

"So you've never eaten haggis?" he said. "Not knowingly," I replied.

My blood ran cold when I realised what he was about to propose: a Burns Night supper.

When out with his pals, he'd noticed that the Wetherspoon chain was entering into the tartan spirit by offering a plate of haggis, bashed neeps and tatties, plus a shot of 10-year-old malt, for £3.99.

It was a small price to pay to satisfy his curiosity, and he said it would enhance my credibility no end if I overcame my aversion to offal for one night only.

Herself said she'd love to join us, but she was looking forward to watching a really good sofa advert on Channel 5.

So it was just the two of us, he full of curiosity, his father dreading an embarrassing reaction ("sick bag over here, please").

The Wheatsheaf, formerly a popular live music venue and before that – a long time before that – Stoke's premier coaching inn, is one of the more convivial Wetherspoon houses in our area. It seems less cavernous and more pub-like than some of the others, and I was surprised to be greeted by name at least four times before we got to the bar.

From past experience I know that Wetherspoon's serve cheap and cheerful meals as well as cut-price ale. I remember once being impressed by an unfeasibly inexpensive mixed grill.

Even so, I ordered the haggis with about as much enthusiasm as I'd hand over the charge for a bungee jump.

In case neither of us could stomach the Burns Night special, we thought a starter might be a good idea, and we checked out the spicy prawns with a sweet chilli dip (£2.79), a tasty enough number, if not an essential part of the Burns Night ritual.

I'd expected the "great chieftain o' the puddin' race" to come in the form of a fat beigey-grey sausage, a bit like one of those slimy pods in which alien lifeforms incubate in science fiction.

Instead we got the contents of the haggis, rather than the complete article. It looked like finely minced meat with onions and oatmeal, and the consistency of baked stuffing.

Glances were exchanged across the table before we each took a tentative forkful.

To our astonishment – well, to mine at any rate – it was rather good, very highly seasoned, but with a pleasant texture and flavour and no conspicuous evidence of internal organs.

The bashed neeps (mashed swede), were bashed into something close to a delicious purée and the mashed tatties, though obviously not peeled and mashed for our benefit, were perfectly acceptable.

I won't be writing an address to it, but I thought our Burns supper was a credit to the kilted element.

Finally, a complaint and a compliment.

The complaint may be a matter of taste. I've heard that some single malts can taste a bit like antiseptic, but mine tasted like neat TCP.

And the compliment?

Congratulations to Wetherspoon for resisting any temptation to pollute the meal with the so-called skirl of the pipes.

All things considered, I think I'd rather eat bagpipes than listen to them.