What with it being the onset of mists and mellow fruitfulness, a full-on N16 Sunday lunch seemed appropriate. The occasion, the 25th birthday of Number One Son (there is no Number Two, The Husband confirms) warranted a spot of indulgence.

So we repaired to the recently re-opened restaurant at the Prince of Wales in Kynaston Road to sample their rare-breed roasts (well, if The Son isn't a rare breed, I don't know what is.). a  short excursion into the dining room proper at the Prince came to an abrupt end when The Husband discovered that the word 'no' in front of 'smoking' meant what it said.

Painlessly relocated in the bar itself (after a brief excursus on civil liberties, health fascists and possibly fox-hunting - I'd stopped listening), we plunged straight into the main course, having been warned that portion control at the Prince verged on the reckless (although the merguez sausage, warm potato and gherkin salad starter looked very tempting): roast beef with the trimmings for most of us and, for Number One Son (who, like his father, finds choice a little too challenging if it has to be made in under twenty four hours), a one-of-each, mixed media Sunday roast extravaganza -pork, beef and lamb, all on one plate.

Thickly-sliced slabs of meat (with a lot of fat - apparently a characteristic of traditional
breeds), good roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, side-plates of cauliflower, red cabbage, ratatouille, green beans and mash, a jug of proper pan gravy and gorgeous freshly made horseradish (and mint and apple sauce, for the lamb and pork) brought conversation to a halt.

Son grunted (was it the pork bringing out the inner pig?) and The Husband spilt gravy down his trousers in an unseemly plate - clearing frenzy that would have earned gold if the Olympics recognised speed-eating as a legitimate sport. All very alpha-male stuff, in a beefy sort of way.

Stretched to our limits, but in the interests of research, we grappled with puddings: crepes with chocolate sauce, vanilla ice cream and maple syrup (me - one dress size larger as a result); apple and strawberry crumble with custard (Tanya, who felt they'd stinted on the crumble); double-chocolate torte (with double cream, as The Husband courted a spell in the cardiac unit); and the cheeseboard for Number One Son. Who ate it all, so it must have been OK.

Verdict? It's more expensive than your average N16 Sunday lunch, but the meat is a revelation: tender and much more flavoursome than we're used to, carefully cooked and neatly presented with a minimum of fuss. Excellent value for a special occasion.

The rare breeds at The Prince aren't confined solely to the menu, and a look at the wine list may find you pondering which would go better with the Belted Galloway: a boisterous Monastrel or maybe something silky from the Ribatejo? Indeed, John, the affable manager and owner with his parter Lucy, is something of a rare breed himself, being half-Finnish, so he knows what he's talking about.

His carefully selected list, majoring on wines from small, family-run producers, kicks off with a house white Grenache blanc called Les Anisses (£2.80/175ml; £11.30/bottle). It's a refreshing glugger, with aromas of white pepper and a nice balance of toffee-apple crispness and sweetness on the palate. Moving upscale a tad, Temporada Domaine Fabre-Montmayou 2002 (£15.00/bottle) is a Semillon-Chardonnay from Argentina that's packed with long butterscotch and honey flavours. It has a lovely nose of what I called tropical fruit and which John's tasting notes calls 'apricots, white flowers, bananas and broom', and I wouldn't take issue with any of that. Except maybe the bananas.

Now, just as your Gloucestershire Old Spot is not your everday fat, pink, farmyard piggy-wig, your Jean-Pierre Ellevin Petit Chablis 2001 (£21.50) is not your everyday thin, white, barnyard Chardonnay. The former is a porcine aristocrat and the latter is rather rich and refined as well, so we won't point out the blob of butter on its nose.

On the red side of the equation, there's plenty of good things to do justice to the food, and the innocent cherry-ripe nose of Campomarino,s Terre degli Osci Sangiovese 2002 (£17.95) lured me unwittingly into its swirling, smoky, peaty, meaty world of flavours. Corcel Ribatejano 2001 (£19.00) comes from Portugal, but its aromas of bitter almonds would have had me guess we were still in Italy. In any case, it has bright, long, super-fresh blackcurrant flavours - leaves and all - and is rather finer-boned than one might expect. At the top of the list, the mint-chocolate cake nose and blackberry coulis flavours of Fabre-Montmayou's Merlot 2000 (£21.50) make it sound like a pudding wine, but that would be a mistake, as it has robust tannins that need a nice, rare slab of meat to chew on.