A piece of Italy in the capital

There's a fine line between fantasy and reality. It's what makes people attack soap stars in the street, and what fools expublic figures into overestimating their own historical importance. Talking of which, the last few weeks have been made unbearable not just by the weather but by the return - hopefully momentary - of our 21st-century Pinocchio, Alastair Campbell. He knows a thing or two about fantasy, as I was reminded listening to him on the radio arguing that it was not a lie to tell an untruth to the public when it was being done to help an old friend (in this case, Peter Mandelson). It never ceases to surprise me how people get trapped in their own world of make-believe.

On a more positive note, the blurring of reality into make-believe of course also powers the creative industries and the area known as Fitzrovia is where most ad agencies and TV production companies are situated. It's where men never wear ties and sit at pavement cafés having ostentatiously loud brainstorming sessions. And it's where I first worked in London, in an office above Heal's (an introduction to expensive habits at too young an age). But it's a great place to get a grounding in London's quirky restaurants (do you remember the wonderful and much-missed White Tower?).

Despite all this, Fitzrovia is nevertheless an odd, disparate neighbourhood. It is situated at the back of Tottenham Court Road, which has to be one of the ugliest streets in London. Fitzrovia is not particularly fashionable now, but it has a history studded with artists - and a rich vein of socialism. Karl Marx used to attend Chartist meetings there; George Orwell and Augustus John used to drink in local pubs; and Pink Floyd and Bob Dylan played at the Speakeasy in the Sixties.

You can walk through a series of cool green squares (Brunswick, Russell and Bedford) to reach Charlotte Street, which has always been famous for its long rows of restaurants. Today, though, these streets are sadly dominated by the same dreary pizza franchises and coffee shops you find on any suburban high street. You might wonder what kind of brave person would want to compete in this overcrowded market? I did - until I walked into La Cantina, which is as Italian as Pavarotti and mozzarella. It's only when you look up and see the Telecom Tower dominating the skyline - like a giant space rocket plunged into the ground - that you remember you're in London.

This is a restaurant straight out of central casting. The bricks on the walls are painted on, there's opera playing in the background. It's as corny as Kansas - and utterly charming.

I had taken a hot-shot lawyer with me and we were discussing the latest high-profile celebrity case of ¸ber-rich male refusing to marry the mother of his child. The lawyer explained that 'very rich men have to be very careful'. Apparently, pre-nups in England aren't legally binding - although everyone thinks they are. Billionaires beware!

We were given ratatouille and bread while we ordered and then shared a plate of antipasti. This was simple and delicious.

The lawyer never chooses pasta because she ate it almost every day as a student, but changed her mind once she saw mine, which was tomatoey and creamy, with just the right amount of bite. It was --and this is no exaggeration - the most perfect pasta I have ever eaten in England.

Other diners included some well-fed Americans, who had been told that La Cantina was the best Italian in the area. We overheard two on another table complaining about Pizza Express (if only more people would). And the tieless ad men and TV types were noticeably absent, but then this is a place to just be, rather than be seen.

Our only gripe was with the puddings, which were all soaked in alcohol, so not good for nondrinkers, or indeed for children, which is surprising in such a friendly, family-run restaurant.