Near-perfect meal at Gilmour's

The worst present I've ever been given was a bread bin. It came from a relative when Guy and I first set up home together. I'll never forget the anticlimax of ripping the paper off the hefty and exciting package that sat beneath our little silver Christmas tree, only to be confronted by a bland wooden object (at least it wasn't pine) that looked like something we might use to transport one of the cats to the vet. (As a general rule, kitchen appliances masquerading as gifts are never a good idea.)

Yes, it's that time of year - clear and present danger ahead. Present buying should be so simple, but it never is. Mostly, you get clangers wrapped in festive paper. Even worse than kitchen appliances are wearable items given by people you meet regularly, who expect to see you sporting cashmere socks (itchy), or a hideous tie (which makes you look like Jon Snow). The perfect present should be aimed at the person you're buying for.

A bit like restaurants, which need to know their target audience and be confident of filling a gap in an overcrowded market. The signs aren't good: Foxtrot Oscar, the famous Chelsea bistro that was taken over by Gordon Ramsay, has now been forced to close for two days a week. Maybe the F-rated Scot has too much on his hands to give the place his full attention, or maybe there just isn't the demand for his hot lunches any more.

But that hasn't deterred Chris Gilmour from opening up a second outlet (the other, Christopher's, is in Covent Garden) named, unimaginatively, Gilmour's. He is the son of a once-famous politician and is hoping that the name will stick in your mind.

It is tucked away behind the Fulham Road in an area that buzzes with late-night supermarkets, serious bookshops and glittery jewellery stores. And where the side streets are studded with spacious, costly villas.

Gilmour's is on one such quiet side street. Its exterior is wide-windowed and inviting. Inside, it instantly makes you feel comfortable, although this has as much to do with the friendly staff as the room itself, which I loved. The walls are boldly coloured, the kitchen gleams silver and aquamarine and amethyst lamps hang overhead. It's like being in the centre of a jewel box. Turquoise and toffee striped velvet banquettes add to the restrained luxury. A group of beautiful people, moonlighting from a Martini commercial, were at the bar, which merits a mention for the sumptuous Georgian wood panels.

I had taken the actress who has recently lost 5lb and was furious I hadn't noticed. I blamed the lighting. As the weather was bitter, I began with soup. This was chestnut and celeriac with pancetta and parmesan. Actually, the gorgeously gooey cheese tasted like mozzarella - but who cares? This was one of the best soups I've eaten in a long time, certainly in a restaurant. Robust, seasonal and interestingly textured, you could imagine it warming slowly in a giant pot on a farmhouse range.

Looking for the lightest starter, the actress chose a cod and cockle fishcake with basil cream and spinach. She said there was no evidence of the clams, but it was chunky with cod and it warmed the cockles of her heart.

She followed with fillets of sea bass, which sat on a pyramid of Chinese greens, wilting like the Chancellor under fire in the Commons. She enjoyed every mouthful, though she had to eat v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y, since my main course of surf 'n' turf was so big. A mighty steakburger with half a lobster on the side. This was a dish Desperate Dan would have slavered over, and it must be a sellout among those hungry, post-gym Sloane boys.

I knew she would crack and opt for pudding, so we did a Ramsay and ordered a tart - hers chocolate and mine treacle. Freshly made and oozing syrup, this was treacle tart as it should be - even though the raspberry sauce was unnecessary.