Sir Terence Conran on Lucky Seven

Sir Terence Conran pulls up outside Lucky Seven in Notting Hill in a very fast Audi surrounded by a heavy aromatic cloud of Montecristo smoke. His arrival has all the air of a state visit. Sir Terence is a big man, who has no trouble filling the small, intimate dining room of Lucky Seven.

In fact, Sir Terence would have preferred to eat up the road at either his son's eponymous deli or at his pub, the Cow. 'I've never particularly liked American diners. They don't have the same appeal for me as their equivalents in France, Italy or Spain.'

I do my best to coax him out of his Europhilia by reading out the most exotic item posted on the text-message-style, telegraphic menu board. 'Surely you would like a Foghorn Leghorn chix supreme avo rkt mustard mayo open face sour dough?' I suggest. 'Not particularly,' he replies, scanning the kitsch-crammed interior curiously before asking the charming waitress for a Bloody Mary.

'In a curious way, it reminds me of my first venture, the Soup Kitchen - the original Soup Kitchen. It is a very, very charming idea, slightly kitsch for my taste, but good for the Notting Hill crowd,' is his immediate verdict.

His drink arrives and, once he has removed the condom-like covering from the straw, he pronounces it well-made, and adds: 'It is a place I would certainly come for breakfast.' But when he places his order it's for a plate of chips, or more correctly, three different types of fries. Like a vertical tasting of vintage clarets, the menu offers an exhaustive examination of chipped potatoes that Sir Terence feels will be the litmus test of Lucky Seven. From thin French fries to roughly quartered spuds that have been fried in their skins his verdict is favourable, and he particularly admires the quality of the oil they have been fried in. 'His chips are extremely good but I am not a hamburger man.'

Burger taste aside, he does see similarities in the way he and his son do things. 'I would look at French caf?s and French zincs and extract what works about them. He's done exactly the same thing with American diners.' His main criticism, however, is that the restaurant is too small to ever be a commercial success. 'It is his attention to detail and the fact that he has studied the diner concept for a long time that makes him want to do it all in such a tiny space,' he says, gesturing at his surroundings with his smouldering cigar. 'But I like the mateyness of it. Tom's problem is that he wants to offer good value but is trying to put the food on the plate as if it is a three-star meal. I think he is over-presenting it a bit.

'He is very, very concerned about the quality of the ingredients and I am sure that criticism that his buns weren't good enough would be taken straight to heart. He does not want to do things in a slapdash way - his primary objective is not to make money but to do things well - and I heartily concur with that. I would run the place more efficiently and economically, cut out some of the detail and simplify the menu. But it is what he loves doing, and I wouldn't interfere with his passion.'

Despite his misgivings, even a canny businessman like Sir Terence is clearly touched by paternal pride: 'I tried to persuade him to become a graphic designer. Instead, he went into the food business and I think he has done very good things. I think he is Mr Notting Hill.'