My neighbourhood gem

Somewhere you don't need to be dignified is The Brackenbury - I love this place, and have done for years. My credit-card statements reflect the many boozy lunches I've enjoyed here. After Edera, it looked shabby and in need of redecorating, but also wonderfully laidback and welcoming.

It's tucked away in a quiet, residential street in Hammersmith (in an area the estate agents prefer to call Brackenbury Village). Green awnings cover pavement tables. Inside, it feels like the converted small house it is - you even have a sense of where the sofa might have been.

It's been going for years, which is why it is such a familiar lunchtime haunt of BBC bosses. Come here any lunchtime and you may see a presenter you recognise. Since the Hutton Inquiry, you'll probably also recognise the suit they're with.

For me, it's not just a venue for working lunches, it's also my local restaurant - I can't think of any other I'd prefer to have so close.

I was reminded how adaptable it is when we turned up for Sunday lunch with a baby and a seven- year- old. As I fussed, putting the young one into a high chair, the waitress won over the indecisive, silent sevenyearold with the suggestion that she try the staff 's recipe for a long, fruit cocktail drink complete with straw and fruit slices.

For the grown-ups, a strawberry buck's fizz had the same effect.

The food is modern European, and of a consistently excellent standard. That's not to say I haven't had some duff meals, but more often than not they get it right. They've also served the best chocolate pot I've ever had - even though it was some years ago, the memory of it has me salivating now.

From the starters, we chose comice pear, Rocquefort, rocket andpinenut salad; seared salmon and confit leek terrine with a tapenade dressing; and veal sweet-bread fritters, couscous and lemon aioli. It's perhaps a reflection of our family's more typical eating habits that, of the last one, the seven-yearold said: "I like those chicken nugget things." At seven, you probably don't want to know what a sweetbread is.

The dish that got the most votes was my main course: goat's cheese pancake, chargrilled asparagus and salsa verde. The pancake was sublime, closer to a light soufflé than a crêpe. The red mullet fillets, mussels and nicoise bourride disappeared inside the seven-year-old before there was a chance to test it. But we felt a bit let down by the third dish. Roast chicken, fondant potatoes and bread sauce, which should have been so simple, looked and tasted boring.

Because it's such a small room, the tables are close together. Combine that with the lack of music - thankfully - and you have the perfect recipe for eavesdropping. What's that about people who listen at doors? Believe me, I know. On one of my first dates with the man who is now my husband, I heard my name mentioned by the woman at the neighbouring table.

I had no idea who she was and, as I caught her eye, I appreciated the glory of radio: she had no idea what I looked like. So she continued slagging me off.