St Alban epitomises success

It was one of those Wizard of Oz moments. The streets were grey and so was the general mood, with the country dipping and diving towards financial oblivion. I was meeting the romantic novelist and one of my favourite journalists for lunch at St Alban, a place that is not easy to find. Try asking someone if they've been there and they will start telling you it's much too far out of town. But no, this is not the pretty Hertfordshire city but St Alban, the restaurant (with no 's' on the end).

Its discreet and unshowy exterior means you could easily pass it by (as the novelist did several times). But appearances can be deceptive; step inside and the place instantly springs to life in colour, a fantasy feast for the eyes. Curving edges and paintbox colours draw you into the exceptionally large room where disc-like and muted ceiling lights give a futuristic feel. Oz rediscovered. There are alternating turquoise and red banquettes and the tables are so low that they make you feel quite little. The journalist, I shall call him PM (oh, that he were), commented that all successful restaurants seem to have a feel of the nursery about them.

And there's no doubt that St Alban epitomises success - you can feel it as soon as you walk in. The comfortable buzz of quiet power. The sense of wealth in its unshowiest guise and the unmistakable aura of influence. It has the flavour of the best places I've visited in New York, until I reminded myself that London is a luminary in her own right.

Staff glided round us (other restaurants please take note, they managed to be unobtrusive yet charming), offering fragrant breads and two types of fizzy water. As an aperitif, PM chose whisky, making me wonder why this fiery Scottish drink is currently so unfashionable: does anyone know? My own Bloody Mary was perfectly made and the novelist proclaimed her Virgin variety to be as heavenly as a celestial choir --although she wished there had been a piece of celery with which to stir it.

Since the journalist had recently left a high-powered editorial meeting, we asked what was the latest state of play in the teetering world of finance. He gave the rueful look of a fairground clairvoyant who's finally decided to come clean. 'Nobody has a clue,' he admitted, reaching for a breadstick (presumably not to beat himself with).

On to the food. Starters are as robust as a school matron. I chose handcarved pata negra ham, which was fanned over my plate like rosy little petals. PM's deep-fried softshell crab made him moan with pleasure, reminding him of far-off days spent in Maryland. Messily (it was almost embarrassing), the novelist ate wood-baked harissa prawns with her fingers, managing to turn the napkin a luminous orange colour, causing a waiter, unasked, to diplomatically hand her another. I gently pointed out that the knife and fork were there for a purpose.

In an effort to maintain my sylph-like figure, I ordered another starter instead of a main course.

The salad of cured salmon and avocado was delicious and prettily presented, but I started suffering from food envy as soon as I saw proper main courses chosen by my guests. The novelist said her seared scallops were as meltingly soft as one of her heroine's hearts, while the journalist's paella was a glossy heap of saffron-hued rice studded with all manner of plump crustaceans. We drank wine by the glass --even the glasses are interestingat St Alban - a Pinot Noir from the north of Italy that was described as a light, lunchtime red. Indeed it was; it proved a splendid accompaniment to some wonderful gossip. Journalists suffer a terrible reputation on a par with estate agents or politicians, but I must say I've always found most of them to be the most entertaining of companions.

We men professed ourselves too full for pudding, but the novelist called our bluff by inviting us to share her bitter chocolate tart with milk ice cream, a move she probably later regretted since we complied with gusto. It was served with a certain solemnity, along with three plates, and it didn't taste in the least bit bitter to me. In fact, it was as unashamedly rich and decadent as Richard Fuld, the disgraced ex-head of Lehman Brothers.

Coffee was served with an accompanying bowl of sweet little macaroons, wrapped in a drift of bright tissue paper, making us think that Christmas had come early. We left feeling warm and replete, reflecting that owners Jeremy King and Chris Corbin's talent for creating superb restaurants has echoes of the cathedral at St Albans. Monumental.

St Alban
4-12 Lower Regent Street, Rex House, SW1Y 4PE