Espelette

Real luxury is never flash. It doesn't scream conspicuous consumption. In these times of apparent austerity it transforms itself into an even more subtle creature: think cashmere instead of fur; sleek silver jewellery rather than bling. It doesn't have to cost much: true luxury is a state of mind.

In credit-crunch Britain, indulgence actually becomes a bit of a necessity, otherwise what's life all about? We need to spoil ourselves while trying to keep the bailiff from the door; and treats are much more enjoyable if they're occasional rather than habitual.

Food has always been associated with luxury and in times of plenty this was symbolised by rarity. The lesser violet-hued sea urchin caught off the coast of Madagascar and flown straight to the capital's most exclusive restaurants made gourmets slaver. Less was definitely much more. But tastes change. Nowadays, the must-have component is likely to be a knobbly carrot pulled from the mud that morning on a small farm on the edge of Essex. (And the lesser violet-hued sea urchin is extinct.)

Last week I felt in need of a luxurious dinner following a memorial service for the inestimable David Chipp, former chief of the Press Association and a dear friend. His death leaves a hole even bigger than John Sergeant exiting Strictly Come Dancing. And because spontaneity is a luxury in a busy life ruled by packed diaries, Guy and I decided to try somewhere different. There's a new bistro at the refurbished Connaught hotel and we wanted to see if the five-star hotel was as sumptuous as ever.

First impressions suggested it was. In the heart of Mayfair, The Connaught looms in the dark night like a brightly lit ship. From the outside, the goldenhued conservatory gleams like a yellow sapphire. Inside Espelette, the air is scented with sweet incense and bright boughs of berries adorn shiny tables. Fires crackle. Staff appear as effortlessly as in a Noël Coward play. Coats are whisked away with a minimum of fuss. You are greeted like an old friend and led to your table. That's luxury.

The room is curved, its ceiling studded with tiny lights, increasing the on-board-a-luxury-liner sensation. Giant, pale bronze vases are filled with orchids. French music plays (rather loudly) in the background, presumably to remind you of the nationality of the new chef and the southwestern town after which the restaurant is named. And you sit overlooking the street - seen and yet unseen - as Mayfair folk go about their business.

The menu offers variety - salads, pasta, grilled meats and fish - although it's a little hotchpotch in composition and didn't reflect the room's stylishness. Remembering how much Chipp loved champagne, we started with Kir Royales, which were sublime.

I started with Joselito Iberico Bellota ham, which was carved at a central table in Dickensian fashion. It was delicious, and although there was enough to feed a family of four, I ate every slice. Guy's oeuf cocotte with piquillo peppers was a mysterious-looking dish, though it tasted delicious and came with its own ham-covered toasted ciabatta. My only quibble is that these were pretty hefty portions, even for a couple with appetites As an entrée, Guy chose fish and chips. He said the fish was meltingly meaty and the batter crisp. The chips were good and looked hand-cut but, bizarrely, were served in a kind of polystyrene cone that might have fallen off a Tracey Emin 'art' installation. I had seven-hour-cooked lamb with spices. It melted in the mouth and was heaven.

We shared a pudding of pear, chocolate cream, caramel ice cream and a walnut biscuit. It looked pretty in its glass dish and tasted so perfect we wished we'd ordered two. Service was friendly and faultless and the atmosphere relaxed. Other diners looked like an interesting and eclectic mix. I spotted someone I thought was a Hollywood agent.

Coffee is served with madeleines - which prompts a Gallic anecdote. Apparently, Proust used to eat his meal before his guests arrived for dinner so that he'd have more time to talk to them. I tried to imagine what Proust might have thought about Espelette and whether Chipp would have liked it. Then I realised that the greatest luxury of all is... time. And dining at Espelette is a great way to spend it.