Anglo-French at Dover

I've just had one of those weeks that made me realise there are more gaps in my knowledge than in a market trader's string vest. On Tuesday I sat among a group of City grandees - I'm not sure what the collective noun is, perhaps (Mortgage) Free Thinkers? - and listened to them opine about the potential impact of the American debt crisis on the British economy. It didn't take long for them to notice that the only Keynes I'd ever heard of was tacked on to the end of Milton.

On Wednesday, I went to a wonderful Prom. Some people are snooty about the acoustics at the Albert Hall, but I've rarely been to a concert there and not come away profoundly moved - which surely is the whole point of music?

The place was packed, partly because there was no modern music in the programme and certainly no premieres of ghastly BBC 'commissions'. And the music was just sublime. Brahms' Fourth Symphony - which Guy assured me was pregnant with late-19th-century morbidity as the Viennese realised their world was soon to come crashing down - was one of the most exquisite works I have listened to. But the worst thing was that I had never heard it before. Another gap.

And then on Thursday - shamed by my lack of musical and economics knowledge - I had to enter the world of fashion. Of course, fashion interests me, and I despair of people who make little effort with what they wear and how they look. But a keen knowledge of the latest, the newest, the coolest and the best is not something I've ever possessed. Expert friends have from time to time led me astray on wild shopping sprees, but most of the results (that yellow shirt!) still languish in the back of my wardrobe. Or are worn to do the gardening in Italy. Consequently, I've developed a huge admiration not only for those who create the physical form of fashion, but for those who promote its image. It's this intangible that gives the clothes their value.

Dover Street Market isn't really a market at all - certainly not in the souk, fruit 'n' flowers or burly trader sense. It's a sort of vertical shopping mall, with tiny stalls, that offers an eclectic bunch of shops. It's also one of the current high temples of fashion - impressive for its assault on the comfort zone of those who do not take style seriously. So, donning my best Timothy Everest suit, and accompanied by a friend in the very latest jeans and T-shirt, I catwalked in.

You can buy it all in Dover Street Market: jewellery, clothes, art and attitude. You may not resemble a supermodel (who is now officially passé), but so what? With confidence and a curl of the lip, you can fit in just about anywhere - even here.

So what of the restaurant on the top floor? The Rose Bakery is an Anglo-French venture with a sister branch in the 9th arrondissement of Paris that I've enjoyed many times.

It was started by Rose Carrarini, who co-founded the popular Villandry in Marylebone - and yes, before you ask, there is a cookbook. Where do these chefs find the time to write so many books?

The café itself is Lilliputian. There's a long shared bench for about 20 people and two tables for two. One of these is outside on a balcony with views over the neighbouring rooftops and I kept expecting to see Mary Poppins floating down on her umbrella. Alongside sit racks of beautifully presented clothes, which look like art installations. I was less convinced by the displays of wax sculpture showing various stages of foetal development. We shared the bench with several young Americans who seemed to have arrived via Milan, and a clutch of assistants from local boutiques.

The menu is short and simple: salads, quiches and bread. I had bacon quiche, which was OK, and I sampled my guest's chicken and avocado salad, which he enjoyed. But both left me wondering what all the fuss was about. It was perfectly adequate, but nothing exceptional and no better than any normal wholefood café. And certainly not a menu that would help anyone stay at size zero. We had carrot cake for pudding, which wasn't a patch on my friend Eric's.