The transport café is a subgenre of eatery, usually distinguished by its industrial setting, wipe-clean interior and a menu biased towards the fuel of the working man. Whilst for Matthew any time is Sausage Time, Cat has to be warmed up to the prospect of a week's worth of food on her plate. None-the-less, one lunchtime they found themselves on the outskirts of Lake, hungry and with an hour to kill.

Despite it being a clement afternoon, the outdoor attractions of the area were a bit limited (Morrison's car park anyone?) so they ventured into the interior of the old fridge factory to see what what was on offer.

Lizzie's Diner was well advertised; arrowed signs led the way deep into the bowels of this ex-factory, down a gloomy corridor which was painted in a yolky-yellow in an effort to simulate a bit of sunshine. Entering the café was a relief to the nostrils, as the corridor's strange smell of commercial chemicals was replaced by the more welcome aroma of cooking. Although Lizzie's Diner is windowless, efforts had been made to reduce the gloom. It was decorated in a jaunty manner with bright red gingham-look tablecloths and black and white photos of long-dead film-stars adorning the walls.

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Matt and Cat perused the menu and it was pretty much as expected. Eggs, chips, sausages, bacon and more standards in various permutations were offered. Your reviewers expected nothing more - after all this is a food formula that has prevailed throughout the decades as other less robust business models have fallen by the wayside. Whatever did happen to the Mongolian barbeque?

Local radio warbled away, enabling Matt and Cat's verbal deliberations to be lost amongst the twitterings of the disc jockey. Matt was keen to try the all-day breakfast - a good benchmark by which to judge a café's quality and value for money. However, he swerved off at the last minute, taken with ham, egg, chips and peas.

Cat, predictably, swished her metaphorical tail at the thought of a pile of fried food. The year-old memory of being overwhelmed by a vast platter of farmyard fare in a Gloucester café was still with her, and she was not reluctant to share with Matt her recollections. She had pushed around the heart-bursting mountain of west-country meats and eggs disconsolately: this could not be borne again. Matthew, sensing her paralysis, went to the counter and ordered for them both. He returned with a complimentary newspaper and was followed by the waitress who came bearing two mugs of tea.

Although Matt and Cat had been the only customers, the place soon started filling up with men. It was clear that the café was a hub for local businesses as chaps in suits fiddled with their mobile phones and overalled others flicked through the tabloids.

Matthew had chosen well for Cat. A delightful little mushroom omelette was delivered along with a plate of hot buttered toast. The dish was completed with a pile of salad: freshly-washed lettuce at its heart and alternating quarters of tomato and slices of cucumber were artfully arranged at the perimeter of the lettuce. It was a lovely dish; the mushrooms were nicely browned and obviously fresh.

Matt's lunch was excellent VFM. A big pile of chips lay adjacent to three slim slices of ham which were themselves topped with perfectly-cooked fried eggs. A handful of peas provided the garnish but didn't add much else to the meal.

Lizzie's Diner, like all industrial estate cafés will probably always cater for its core audience well. Hungry men have to eat and no-frills cooking is what they want. This is a perfect example of the genre at its finest - simple well-cooked fodder, value for money and located in the heart of Lake's industrial quarter. You won't stumble upon this place by accident - indeed, to find it takes a certain amount of exploration - but you'll be glad you took the trouble.