The Goring would be Miss Marple's favouite

I've just been on a two-day visit to Los Angeles, with its candy-floss sunsets and $50 million homes - although inevitably the city seemed different this week. Post-election, everyone is still drunk with the heady mix of empowerment and enlightenment and I found myself feeling a little jealous of America's new-found sense of national identity. But with Bush going, I can be honest again in saying I love most things about the United States --even if its cuisine fails to excite me.

I don't want to know my carb intake, nor eat an unnecessary bowl of salad before the main course arrives, or eat food of only one colour every other week. And I'd like my meal accompanied by a large glass of wine, please, not water. Staring at the ocean in the Hockney-bright sunlight, I found myself getting nostalgic for home and the kind of food I adore; the kind you'd never find in California.

When American friends pay a return visit to London, they often ask for advice on where to eat, and these days the capital has such a plethora of good restaurants to suit any budget that they find themselves spoilt for choice. But there are some places so fine that I tend to recommend them only to very special people - and The Goring Hotel has always been one of them.

The name may make you think of angry bulls or idyllic Oxfordshire villages, but Goring is actually the family name of the last privately owned hotel in London. You can find it in an unexpectedly sweet little backstreet, not far from the bustle of Victoria Station. Its elegant façade makes you think you've stepped back in time to a far more graceful age. If Miss Marple had a favourite London hotel, it would be this one.

But along with my imaginings of what a fictional detective might enjoy, it has long been one of the Royal Family's favourite places. The walls are dotted with photographs of the late Queen Mother enjoying cosy gatherings here with her friends in the racing fraternity. Her nephew, Lord Linley, designed the restaurant's furniture and her favourite grandson, Charles, is planning a 60thbirthday brunch here. A very happy birthday, Sir. The dining room is large but intimate, buzzy yet private, with large windows framed by chartreuse curtains. From the ceiling hang fairy-tale branches of blossoms, fashioned from Swarovski crystals. I'd brought a novelist friend, and she loved them.

We talked about the election result, which almost feels as if it has been our election, too. As the new president-elect put it: the planet is in peril. Which means there's now a global necessity to source our food as locally as possible, although The Goring has always been ahead of the trend by offering fresh and seasonal food.

The novelist began with oysters - plump, perfect things that came sitting regally on a pile of ice shards. I chose the lobster omelette - a golden and gooey disc filled with fleshy, pink pieces of shellfish. The eggs were so good that the chickens must have had a five-star lifestyle rivalled only by Paris Hilton. It was one of the most delicious dishes I've ever tasted.

Because my guest said that most of the dishes on offer were a 'clubby kind of man's food', she selected a slab of haddock topped with a poached egg. This is a simple dish that can be ruined by overcooking but she purred with pleasure.

I chose the day's special of steak-and-kidney pudding, which arrived with a certain pomp and ceremony on a silver trolley. The pudding was thick with meat and dripping with rich gravy, and the sight of the suet crust made me nostalgic for the kind of old-fashioned British cooking I have all too rarely. Although both our meals came with potatoes, we ordered a portion of chips because they looked wonderful. And they were. Big, thick and golden brown. I haven't given marks out of ten for chips for a while, but these ones were nearly a perfect ten. And so was Stewart, the maitre d'.

We ended the meal with a heavenly trifle and chocolate and Earl Grey mousse, and over coffee we studied the other diners. Affluent men, elegant women, a few journalists, a theatrical-looking pair in jeans and some politicians. Mrs Thatcher likes to eat here and that's maybe because The Goring encompasses all the values she holds dear. A thriving, family-run business, with the highest standards. The very best of British.

Goring Dining Room
Beeston Place, London, SW1W 0JW