Brinkley's

What must it feel like when a screen heart-throb is suddenly relegated to the status of ageing roué?

Just ask Hugh Grant. The floppyhaired film star with a penchant for pouty girlfriends and LA drive-ins was given short shrift recently at Brinkley's restaurant, where a 23-yearold girl likened him to a 'sleazy, drunken uncle' after he kept trying to chat her up. Oh, dear. If age is cruel then surely youth is even crueller.

In dining terms, Brinkley's is a very respectable age indeed - it's been open for almost 30 years. In a world where restaurants open one year and close the next, this is no mean feat. It styles itself as being in 'Little' Chelsea, a rather disingenuous tag for a place that is closer to Earls Court. Though not that close. If coming by public transport, then make sure you wear comfortable shoes. But the chances are you won't - most customers are local, or wellheeled enough to arrive by taxi. It's a neighbourhood venue that quietly enjoys its celebrity status.

Outside there are pavement tables for smokers and arguing couples, and next door is Brinkley's Wine Gallery. There's a wine bar at the front of the restaurant which was packed out on the night I visited. You had to fight your way through the noisy crowd of (mainly) men, and I took the opportunity to look around to see if there were any sleazy-uncle types.

There were, indeed, plenty of gentlemen of a certain age. These were red of jowl and cushioned of waistline and their leathered skin reminded me why the expression lounge lizard was invented. Several were attempting to converse with young women - plus ça change, and all that.

My TV writer friend was already at the table when I arrived and said how lovely the staff had been while she was waiting (I think she was trying to make a point). We were seated in the back of the restaurant, which has a conservatory-type roof, a temporary feel and is a bit like eating in a wedding marquee - I kept expecting Richard Curtis to walk by. There is an interesting menu that is either catholic or a mishmashdepending on your point of view. It is clearly designed to appeal to as many tastes as possible; the Barack Obama of menus, if you like. Our post-Christmas health regimes had just been abandoned and it was the end of a busy week, so we were properly hungry.

I started with dim sum, a dish I love. Plump and pale little parcels of tender chicken arrived, along with a sweet soy sauce. My friend swooned over her deep-fried sesame king prawns, alongside a clump of deliciously-dressed rocket.

Next (and probably influenced by the excellent blanket coverage of the US elections in the British media), I chose a Brinkley's burger, which came with chips, crispy onions and more rocket. It was as good as most burgers - a comforting ballast of meat and bun. My one criticism was that it came with only half a bun, which means you can't pick it up to eat it and enjoy that fleeting lumberjack moment.

Rather disappointedly - because she, too, had wanted the burger - my friend chose fillet steak. She said it was wonderful, just like one of her fictional detective heroes - tender and wellhung. Her single complaint was that the chips were bland, not even as nice as McDonald's chips, but the béarnaise sauce made them bearable.

We were feeling reckless enough to order a pudding. Mine was toffee cake with warm toffee sauce and ice cream. I cannot over-emphasise how good this was. A slab of light, rich cake and a smooth, gooey sauce; the kind of pudding you might choose for your last-ever meal. My guest had the dark and white chocolate mousse, which she thought might come as a composite cake. Instead, there were two creamy scoops sitting side-by-side on the plate. It was such a large portion that she protested she would never be able to finish it. I simply smiled, and true enough, soon both our plates were as clean as Connecticut.