A beacon for Richmond's starving gastronomes

Richmond may rate itself as one of the smartest areas to live in London, but if good restaurants are a guide, rather than house prices and the number of private schools, then it can think again.

Indeed, compared with adjacent Kew, Sheen, Barnes and Twickenham, the very centre of Richmond for years now has been something of a culinary desert.

Near the bridge, Chez Lindsay offers consistent, authentic Breton fare but on my last few visits there's not been sight or sound of Lindsay and the place could do with sprucing up. Along the river, Canyon is off the beaten track.

By the green, The Burnt Chair has given up the struggle altogether (eating there was unsettling - hushed atmosphere, OK but pricey food, too attentive owner, great Californian wine list).

Not surprisingly, when Carluccio's finally got round to opening a branch, opposite the station, earlier this year, there were queues round the block.

There is an alternative for Richmond's starving gastronomes. We discovered it on our way back to the NCP the other Sunday. Called La Buvette, it's hidden in Church Walk, right next to the parish church, on the site of what used to be another all-too-rare, reliable central Richmond restaurant, The Refectory.

Whereas The Refectory was traditional English (with steam puddings and steamed-up windows to match) La Buvette is much more appealing to locals, in the sense that it's not English at all.

From the heavy accents of the waiters to the gorgeous Normandy butter and straight-from-the-oven bread that won't last more than an hour before going dry and hard, it's the same la France profonde beloved of countless gîte holidays and drives to le soleil.

Thanks, no doubt, to having a successful, elder sibling, Brula, in St Margarets, it oozes certainty and confidence. It knows what works, and has a firm grasp of what we want and the bits of France we don't - so, when we order chicken breast and chips for our 18-month-old off the children's menu, and the maître d' asks if we'd like it to arrive with our starters, we find ourselves thanking him for being so non-French.

For Sunday lunch, we sat on the terrace, under a vast awning. It was impossible to avoid snatches of the other diners' conversations. "She was a lot larger than I thought she'd be, but she is married to a New Zealand farmer," conjured up a lovely image of a once stick-thin, roly-poly, apron-clad woman, earning the disapproval of her old friends in Richmond but blissfully happy on the other side of the world with just her man and thousands of sheep for company.