Brompton Bar & Grill

It was tiny, but overlooked the Hotel Georges V. Part of its charm was having to contend with hordes milling around in the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Madonna, or Celine Dion, or which global icon happened to be staying there that week.

But mostly it was an elegant and quiet boulevard - with the American cathedral halfway down, the glitter of the Seine at the other end and every possible shopping opportunity on our doorstep.

We would eat in those restaurants so typically French - all yellowed ceilings and faded booths -that it felt as if we'd wandered on to a film set. Indeed, most of them had been used in films and the proprietor would proudly show you photo albums as you worked your way through soupe à l'oignon, cassoulet and tarte au citron. The menus never changed and we didn't want them to; a predictable routine was what we loved about our little slice of Paris.

The Brompton Bar & Grill used to be known as Brasserie St Quentin - in the days when it provided a comfortable imitation of its Gallic cousins - and I confess trepidation when I heard that it had undergone extensive refurbishment. During hard times, as well as wanting value for money, there is a tendency to cling to the familiar.

But there's nothing familiar about the new-look restaurant. Fading Frenchness has been replaced with a sleek, contemporary look. Cartoon-clad white walls and white tables. Wooden floors and a dark, exotic bar. A row of silver lampshades hang above each table - like contraptions positioned over the head of The Prisoner, during an interrogation in that much-loved programme.

The burghers of Knightsbridge clearly have no objections to the changes. It was packed out on the day I lunched there. I was meeting the novelist who was at the table, people-watching like mad. She'd seen lots of cashmere and influence and someone she recognised from a previous life (she was once a nurse, so I didn't pry). All I wanted was a spicy tomato juice, which was brought to the table with the judicious addition of horseradish and a fat stick of celery to use as a straw. Delicious.

The menu isn't familiar either, with not a moules frites in sight. I started with crab: a creamy, fishy mound piled on toast. It was a faultless starter but it would be even nicer if someone could serve it up to me at home, on a late-night supper tray. The novelist chose native oysters (she's on yet another diet, and I was paying) and said they slid down a treat - though she did have two quibbles. Firstly, that she prefers to prize the crustacean from the shell herself and secondly, that there is no restaurant in London that sends out butter at room temperature.

There's a balanced list of main courses (I hate too many things to choose from). The healthy voice in my ear nudged me toward the special of grilled pollock but my inner carnivore won with steak and kidney pie, which prompted a squeal of delight from my friend.

The glossy brown pastry was absolutely perfect: a crispy melting lid concealing the rich meat filling beneath. Her grilled monkfish was well-received and we loved the chips - easily 9/10 in the chip test.

Puddings come in little pots: priced at an unbelievably reasonable £3 each. A burnt cream and honeycomb ice cream soon disappeared -and I would come back again for the sticky toffee pudding.