Thanks to Jay Rayner, son of this country's best auntie, (and brought up round the corner from me in NW London), for letting me in somewhat belatedly to this intriguing phrase. So Islington/Notting Hill it's actually New York.
I can sleep soundly knowing that the pheasants I plucked and then cooked last night are absolutely at the cutting edge of eating. If local provenance is all, then I am secure in providing nothing less than ambrosia on my table; my food miles are measured in yards. I take a bow.
But if this, as Jay suggests, has been the age of the pig, then I will cock a snook at his suggestion that the Gloucester Old Spot is king. I have raised and chomped on the GOS and insist that it cannot match the Berkshire for lusciousness. This hairy black prick-eared pig was made for roast pork, crispy pork belly, chops to caress. The gammon and bacon made from this year's bunch is supreme. One of my gammons taken to Lille by friends as Christmas fest food was pronounced amazing. And it is. I have just devoured the proof courtesy of the last chunk of the holiday joint.
I think I will have to go commercial soon so more hairy black pig fans can try it for themselves.
Perhaps Jay could write an article about my pork and Hugh Fearnley Wotnot can look to his much admired laurels.