Food at Kenwood House needs major renovation

Art is big. Bigger than David Cameron's lead in the polls or the odds on Andy Murray winning the singles title at Wimbledon. These days, diamonds are getting the brush-off from investors and the smart money is on plump birds painted by Freud or Monet's lilies.

I'm unlikely ever to have a priceless oil painting hanging on the walls of my flat, but at Kenwood House the walls are crammed with Old Masters. With summer at last here (I'm convinced the sun is a magic ingredient that will cure our current economic ills), I decided it was time to venture again to this London landmark on the edge of Hampstead Heath. I hadn't been for years. Kenwood is one of those places we know is there, and we know it's pretty, but it just seems a bit too far away. Fighting through the traffic (which I've decided it's still OK to blame Ken for), I remembered an article I'd read that Russian scientists have discovered that loud music can knock years off the life of an old painting. As Kenwood regularly hosts rock concerts during the summer, I wondered how its Old Masters were faring here in the careful hands of English Heritage, which is supposed to 'protect and promote England's spectacular historic environment'. More of that later.

The first thing you notice is how tired and dreary the exterior of the house looks. The paint is peeling and a large group of people who looked as if they wanted to be relatives of Wayne Rooney were playing some kind of ball game on the grass at the front. At first, this jarred - it seemed rather like having a fat camp doing their workout in front of Buckingham Palace - but their innocent pleasure was so apparent, I chastised myself for firing in their direction my rage at my own weight increase (at least they are doing something about it!).

Finding the restaurant at Kenwood wasn't easy, but in retrospect I wish it had been impossible. Down a flight of dingy steps I went with my writer friend, my heart sinking as I approached a dark and narrow corridor and saw before me that most English of institutions - the queue. Bowed and accepting, the dispirited line snaked before us, all clutching their grubby Formica trays.

The self-service area reminded me of being at school when the fire alarm went off - total confusion and disorganisation. People milled around the hot food selection (I'm afraid the flabby sausages and overfilled bowls of sludgy soup made me feel nauseous), so we fought for space along the sandwich selection.

We were certainly not spoilt for choice. My friend chose a tuna salad which came in the kind of difficult-to-open, flimsy container you get given on a budget airline. The salad was tired and uninspiring and the portion of fish was stingy. My sandwich was an inferior type to one you might pick up from a high street chain and so short on filling that I left most of it. A large scone tasted like something you might use to insulate your loft and was smeared with a meagre dollop of horrible, sickly jam and a too-generous portion of what looked like cream but which might have been shaving foam. A portion of carrot cake was dry.

Ignoring the cramped and humid conditions within, we took our trays into the outside seating area which was almost completely empty. One woman sat nearby talking to herself and there were several dog owners, their large hounds sniffing the air, no doubt keen to sample some leftover food (of which there was plenty). An English summer garden restaurant sparsely populated on a glorious, golden day in the middle of summer; what does that tell you about this eating experience? That it is grim. Very grim. We couldn't face returning to yet another queue in order to buy coffee and so we left, distinctly disheartened.

With its almost £200 million budget, I don't know what English Heritage is doing to help Kenwood, but someone needs to find out, and quickly. The open outdoor spaces are lovely, but the predominant air was of something faded and dying, and it reminded me of pre-Gorbachev government buildings I'd stayed in across Eastern Europe. Magnificent places, but with every ounce of joy ripped out. Even the Old Masters looked sad. We should be treasuring Kenwood, not knocking it about like a Formica tray.

Kenwood House
Hampstead Lane, NW3 7JR