A glittering return to form

I worry I may be turning reactionary, morphing inexorably into Michael Winner. Oh, the tears I shed over the closure of the New Piccadilly (although the sign on the locked forever door reading 'Yippee' hinted that owner Lorenzo Marioni doesn't share my pain); my horror at the Satan's-pulling-pad revamp of the Dorchester Bar and the Ramsay-fication of all our most venerable hotels.

And now the improvers have been unleashed on that most evocative of foodie institutions, the glorious Fortnum & Mason - a mighty 300 years old this month.

So, it was making a loss and new brooms had to sweep in with improved Internet presences and pre-packaged foods and atriums and all the other accoutrements of 21st-century retail. But - wail - this is Fortnum's. The Queen's grocer. Where do I start with the worries? Maybe with the predictable recruitment of David Collins as designer. It seems like this is the only dude in town trusted to get his hands on anything with a sniff of heritage about it.

But here's where I stop whingeing. Because the team behind the updating of F&M, including Collins, is doing a brilliant job. The store looks extraordinary, opened up and brightened without any loss of its intrinsic character. The light-filled halls and sweeping staircase deliver equal amounts of drama and glamour.

The first two 'food offerings' (as I'm sure the pointy heads will call them), 1707 Wine Bar and The Parlour ice-creamerama, are effortlessly class acts. And now here's The Fountain, much loved by maiden aunts, stout parties in tweed 'up from the country' and the occasional louche type wafting over from Mayfair's art dealerships. Whatever misgivings I may have had, I find I'm prepared to eat them as willingly as a slab of the emporium's famous Welsh rarebit.

It is ravishing. Enchanting. A subtly glittering room of unabashed gorgeousness. I gush, I know, but seriously: this is now one of the loveliest rooms in the capital.

OK, so they've ditched the famous murals and the ornamental cranes. The bamboo chairs have gone. It's no longer what you'd call cosy. Instead, the room has been painted a distinctive, Georgian pale aquamarine (very Fortnum's); gilded fittings and surfaces shine; upholstery beckons you to sink into it and wall sconces shimmer.

The focal point is the horseshoe-shaped bar, where you can sip champagne with eggs Benedict and survey the bustle. Yep, it's bustling. And it seems that the old customers are lapping up the revamp alongside us parvenus: unnervingly, several tables seem to be occupied by my mother-inlaw. A doppelganger of hers is sporting a small, stiff Margaret Rutherford cape and green felt hat complete with quivering pheasant quill. Ah, Fortnum's: you do not disappoint.

Consulting on the menu is Shaun Hill, late of Michelin-studded Merchant House in Ludlow - a chef steeped in just the right sort of Britishness.

The Fountain may be brasserie in hours and outlook - and you'll find bourride, crêpe millefeuille, rabbit croustade and Crottin de Chavignol soufflé - but, with its smoked salmon, Highland scramble, fish and chips and selection of grills, the overwhelming flavour is still solidly trad Brit. Take ham hock terrine: it comes bound in glossy, deeply flavoured parsley jelly with nutty brown bread and a pot of crunchy, home-made piccalilli; the meat is essence of cured porkiness. The Crottin soufflé is magnificently light and goaty, paired with a sweet-sour tomato chutney that cuts its cheesy intensity.