There cannot be too many places only six miles from the centre of London where it is possible to feel so strongly the atmosphere of a country pub. With Hampstead Heath on the doorstep Flask was a convenient place for travellers, ramblers and locals, as well as Dick Turpin who in an awkward moment took refuge in the cellars. Its name was gained by providing a point where health buffs could pop in and buy a container in which the Hampstead Spa waters might be transported homewards. Since then it has been a steady process of expansion to the point where now the chattering classes tend to outweigh all others, but not to the point of destroying the essentially rural feel to the place. Nowhere is this better demonstrated than in the quality and variety of the beer, underlined in a painting by William Hogarth, a former regular, extolling the virtues of drinking beer as opposed to the demon gin. The food tends to straddle the divide as well and once you have negotiated the bar-balanced bowls of olives you can order what might be termed as light refreshments or heavy snacks, or Highgate tapas even. These could involve a fairly arbitrary selection of ciabatta, bagels, feta, farmhouse bread, mushrooms and apple crumble - good sturdy rambler's fare, whose side 'her at the stove' appears to be on.