Dining with soul

Sitting at the table next to ours is a man who looks like he's escaped from the baddie faction of the Lord Of The Rings trilogy. As the evening progresses, a number of decorative young women smooch and schmooze him; he appears to take this feminine homage as his divine right.

This is Arthur Baker, 'legendary' music producer - he's worked with everyone who's anyone, from Afrika Bambaataa on the seminal Planet Rock, through Talking Heads, New Order and Jeff Beck - and he's owner of the new kid on the Notting Hill block, Harlem.

It's hard to put an age on Baker: he could be anything from a hard-lived late 30s to a well-preserved 103. Whatever; he certainly knows what floats the boat of this part of the world's hyper-groovy youth: the punters here are the best-looking, coolest and most multi-cultural bunch I have encountered in many a restaurant experience.

Perhaps it's something to do with the music: Baker's passion is reflected in Harlem's soundtrack and guest DJs - the likes of 2 Many DJs, Don Letts, Maseo from De La Soul - are a regular feature. Or it might be the funky, Manhattanesque, bare brick and chandeliered decor by designer-as-rock'n'roller Paul Daly that forms a perfect backdrop for this kind of insouciant posing. Or maybe the magnetic draw is the holy grail of a 2am licence both in the upstairs restaurant and the basement bar.

The menu's youth-friendly, too. It comes over as an upmarket hybrid of McD's and KFC sans Styrofoam. There's breakfast - American-style waffles; steak and eggs; grits; maple syrup-cured bacon; muffins; onion rolls - from 8am; lunch and brunch; dinner; even a 'supper' menu of salads, burgers and the 'soul kebab' from midnight till the small hours. But what differentiates the food at Harlem from the soulless multinationals is that it's pretty damn fine.

Dinner careers happily all over the Americas, with Manhattan diner influences (corned beef sandwich), Southern staples (buttermilk fried chicken), and Latino (quesilladas). There's a knowing, deliciously trailer-trash flavour to a lot of it: this kind of food done well (as it is here) is the reason that many Americans make Pop Idol's Michelle look like Kate Moss. If you intend to become a regular, kiss goodbye to your crotch-skimming Maharishis.

A quesillada, described as a great starter for two, was a beast of a thing, a plate-covering flour flatbread stuffed with 'hanger' steak (sort of chargrilled skirt steak), peppers, onions and mushrooms, topped with perky guacamole and salsa. We liked this a lot, but not as much as our splendid burger: blackly charred and almost crunchy outside, rosily medium-rare as requested inside, packed with juice and meaty flavour.

I liked the slightly sweet bun, too, and the slab of sugary, vinegary pickle. Only some toogreasy onion rings and buttermilk chicken - the KFC moment - disappointed. Really epic homestyle Southern-fried chicken is a thing of beauty, its spicy, crisp crust crackling apart to reveal moist, steaming meat.

This version, due to misjudged cooking temperatures, was a little flabby of coating and dry of content. Still, its accompanying coleslaw was fresh, creamy and good. After all this, a strawberry and apple crumble was a pointless and anodyne overindulgence: we were too stuffed, and too intent on enjoying the excellent cocktails.

When we headed off, around 11pm, the joint was jumping, the music had cranked up and the booze was flowing. Harlem used to be Angelo's, a deeply crazy late-night hangout much loved by after-duty chefs and waiters. Baker may have reinvented the clientele, but a seductively louche atmosphere remains.

Harlem
Westbourne Grove, London, W2 5RT