Let them eat bread

It's always disenchanting to discover something isn't true. Marie Antoinette never suggested eating cake instead of bread. The lively wife of Louis XVI wasn't even born when the contemptuous quote was made - though clearly she thought the peasants were revolting. Her lifestyle was one of extravagance and conspicuous consumption; she was the Cherie Blair of her day.

Gone are the limos and freebies and the fuel-gulping holidays in far-flung destinations. Instead, we want bicycles and wind turbines, right-on shops and community centres. We want our leaders to be people like us, living in places we can all aspire to. Notting Hill: where West is best, and no one's stressed. The appeal of this part of London is hard to fathom. It doesn't have the river, a common or much in the way of history or monuments of outstanding interest to commend it. What it does have are houses so big and luscious that, come the revolution, this is where it will all start.

Strolling up Kensington Park Road, past the leaf-licked villas, I found myself gazing wistfully at large bay windows designed to bring out the Oliver Twist in us all. How I longed to be whisked inside, to eat homemade mince pies and play charades, while gathered round the giant Christmas tree.

I was lunching at Mediterraneo, which sits on a busy crossroads with Blenheim Road and is the perfect vantage point from which to watch Notting Hill women with their tiny dogs and wicker baskets do a little recreational food shopping.

Although it was almost 1pm, the front of the restaurant was empty and completely devoid of atmosphere. The walls, which might be described as distressed cappuccino, certainly distressed me; their insipidity relieved only by the twinkling of Christmas lights. This is the second beige restaurant I've visited in a month and I hope it's the last.

Bland should be banned.

Fortunately, I was meeting the footballer for a colourful bit of gossip since these are interesting times for the sport. Even more newsworthy than the appointment of the new England manager was the recent David Beckham ad campaign for Giorgio Armani which had everyone choking over their morning cornflakes. We kicked off to a good start with a couple of Bellinis while we studied the menu. This didn't take long since it was short on everything - particularly imagination. But the bread they brought while we waited (and waited) for someone to come and take our order was absolutely delicious.

A few more customers had begun to straggle in -mainly the young middle-aged who are smug in the way only the earnest rich can be. One table, who looked comfortable enough to be regulars, ordered champagne. Were they celebrating the prospect of a delicious lunch, I wondered? When I spotted a famous American TV news journalist, known for her judgement, booking a table for ten that evening, my excitement knew no bounds.

That fleeting thrill was the high point of the meal, because it was all down-Hill from there on. The footballer's carpaccio of sea bass looked and tasted like a saucer-ful of cat food. My mozzarella was mediocre; the most interesting aspect was the fact that it was tied with a piece of blue cotton which made me wonder if it was part of some new weird religious cult.

A thin slab of swordfish was served with oil-soused broccoli, which the footballer said was as unpalatable as a frosty morning training session, while my spaghetti alle vongole was so dreadful that I left the whole lot. This is a classic, marker dish which any Italian restaurant worth its sale should be able to construct perfectly.

But at least main-course deprivation meant that I could enjoy a guilt-free pudding. Sadly not. The chocolate mousse had that been-in-the-fridge-for-days look about it and tasted of own-label toothpaste. The chocolate 'fondant' was good -though it was actually two thin slices of chocolate cake sitting in a puddle of sweet crème anglais.