'FEELING merry, are you? Not that I know what that's like, of course, sir." He's a legend in his own lunchtime, is Tom, the teenage waiter at the King's Head Hotel, in Kirkbymoorside.

Tom is quite possibly the funniest waiter you'll meet. He's a fresh-faced, cheeky blighter, and at 15, he boasts all the banter and panache of someone twice his age.

He gets the introduction any waiter would die for; a chalkboard outside the delightful inn boasts of "delicious staff and friendly food".

That sets the standard quite nicely for this fabulous pub and restaurant. There is pride in the food and drink to be had within, and there's humour in its provision.

This, after all, was a haunt of renowned North Yorkshire artisan and hellraiser, Lewis Creighton, whose sublimely wacky paintings adorn the walls of the Duke's Bar. They feature broad expanses of North York moorland, where hapless hunting parties encounter Indian scouts armed with tomahawks, and where posh villains make their getaway by sedan chair.

Check out, also, the unassuming pencil sketch in the bar's far corner. It is Creighton's final work, knocked out during his last two weeks on this earth. It shows his view from a window in Malton Hospital, sealed with the rather sinister phrase: "Mr Blackbird comes to see me".

At no extra charge, mein host and his patrons will tell tall tales of Creighton's exploits.

Yes, there's more character and history in a single nook of the King's Head than in most other hostelries. And that's before you even get to the food.

The restaurant is very popular. Even with a new conservatory, backing on to a pleasant patio, it often fills up. Liz and I were advised to book early on this warm summer Sunday night, and we were glad we did.

Kirkby (as this long-winded town is known to locals) is deceptively lively, its half-dozen main street pubs running the spectrum from quiet night to raucous karaoke. The King's Head is arguably the most refined, a former coaching inn whose foyer still bears authentic scratch marks from carriages entering the night stables.

All diners wait in the bar first, partaking of the pub's excellent selection of drinks. I went for Timothy Taylor Landlord, while Liz trusted the house to select a dry white wine.

Orders are taken in the bar, too, although it is at the ordering stage that you can say where you would like to sit. Your choices are the bar area itself, the well-appointed, convivially dark restaurant, or the new conservatory, for which we opted.

The menu soon had us salivating, possibly more than any other sheet of A4 paper has before. Small but perfectly formed, you might say. The dishes change every two weeks, the sure sign of a restlessly creative chef.

For starters, Liz settled on a spinach and ricotta tortelloni with coriander and parmesan sauce, for £4.50. Now, if you were struggling to define the word "creamy" to a Martian, you might well show him what arrived. It was a delectable, colourful spread of pasta, in a rich sauce, and creamier than a Devon creamery after a cream explosion. Almost too rich; Liz reckoned it was tad filling for a starter.

For me, it had to be the mushroom terrine, also £4.50, served with a tangy bitter leaf salad and a sparky sweet chilli sauce. The dish contrived to be a delicate balance of tastes; sweet, sour, spicy and smooth. And I loved it.

The main course options made me feel like a chicken. Literally. I was tempted by some mouth-watering fish options, including swordfish steak and young codling, described in sumptuous detail. But like a chicken, I went for the chicken.

That's not to say this wasn't an exciting option. When did you last have prime breast of chicken wrapped in pancetta ham, stuffed full of black pudding and apple, swimming in sauce and served with sauted tagliatelle? Good God, that's not a meal, that's an exhibit in someone's Museum of Deranged Imaginings. But boy, did it work. And at £10.25, it was good value.

Again, a rather excessive richness marred the thing, and it was hard to stay the distance, but for those all-important first ten mouthfuls or so, it was heavenly.

My wife, meanwhile, had ordered £14 worth of fillet steak, plonked on top of a crunchy potato rosti, and set adrift in a lagoon of stilton and creme fraiche sauce. The tender meat yielded to the lightest tap of a knife, and was as red and wicked a thing as you could desire.

A splendidly-prepared array of steamed veg and new potatoes, for sharing, provided the ideal backup.

The whole shebang filled us up good and proper, so we decided to share an option from the excellent dessert menu, and what we fancied was a strawberry brulee (£3.50). It was the perfect end to things; light, refreshing, and ideal to share.

All the while, the Pitt The Younger of the restaurant trade busied himself hither and yon, swapping easy banter with regular and newcomer alike.

The meal itself cost £48, including drinks, and will prove robustly memorable. They may change the menu by the time you go - but do go. They've got it all; good price, good food, good artwork - and marvellous service from Kirkby's own Artful Dodger.

The King's Head Hotel, High Market Place, Kirkbymoorside. Tel 01751 431340.

Updated: 09:26 Saturday, August 31, 2002