Ravinder Bhogal's diary

I've often thought that eating really enjoyable food didn't begin in Britain until the 1950s when Elizabeth David published her garlic manifesto

But I discovered I was mistaken last Saturday when I found myself perched at the chef's table at Dinner by Heston Blumenthal. As much as Heston is a thoroughly modern chef, the menu is rooted in the past, taking inspiration from recipes from as far back as the 13th century. Nine courses with a few sneaky extras thrown in, and my excitement and delight grew with every plate - just like my arse. I don't need to elaborate on the eloquence of my TV husband and friend, the food critic Jay Rayner, who announced, 'It's stupidly good.' Well done to Heston and his head chef Ashley Palmer-Watts - oh, and the Tudors for giving me something more memorable than 'divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived'.

From the historical to the newfangled - trends like pop-ups and supper clubs are much like food chains. They start with pioneers of style who are terrifyingly cool. Next, they are picked up by the people in the know. Then the trend filters down to the style vultures, people concerned with being cool who make it their business to live across the street from the really cool people. From there, they are popularised by reality TV stars, and finally, the trend is digested by the plankton, the laggers; the people like me. Point in case: after everyone else has already done and dusted the pop-up, I decided to take one on - although mine was a pop-up within a pop-up in a pop-up, which is so awkwardly long-winded that it has to be a little bit rad, surely?

Anna Hansen, chef at The Modern Pantry, invaded Meza on Wardour Street for a four-week run. Swanky suburban supper clubber Lee Behan of the popular Friday Food Club hosted four consecutive Wednesdays within her takeover. It was on one of Lee's nights that I popped on my chef's whites, kicked off my heels and cooked six courses for 95 people, including Hollywood's finest character actor Stanley Tucci (the acerbic stylist in The Devil Wears Prada), food critic Richard Vines and author Xanthe Clay. We even had Peter Andre sidling up to the bar.

We drank Laurent-Perrier and my guests worked their way through a menu of Mumbai shots, soft-shell crab, ras el hanout lamb, champagne and rhubarb jelly, rosewater panna cotta and rose doughnuts. I've always maintained that I'm a cook not a chef, as I have had no formal training but I cook ultimately because I want to feed people. Cooking for others is, after all, a currency of love, and we all need a little love. I found the experience exhilarating and addictive and now have more pop-ups in the pipeline, including a special collaboration with one of my hero-chefs, Mark Hix, at Selfridges.

So popular is the supper club that big- name chefs are now getting in on the act. The other night I went to Pierre Koffmann's new supper club at The Berkeley. Fourteen diners tucked into five beautiful courses inspired by the family feasts Pierre enjoyed as a child in Gascony. His partner Claire Harrison headed the table, cutting us thick slices of homemade bread and explaining the heritage of each dish. My favourite was the Demoiselle duck for which we were encouraged to down cutlery and use our teeth and fingers. You could normally only get away with that at home.

After all that food, a girl needs a bed so I checked into a suite at The Savoy. There was a time when a simple square of chocolate on my pillow made me feel like a VIP, but now I'm spoilt forever. From the moment I stepped into the front hall, I checked out of my humble life and into the world of someone marvellously recession-proof - someone who takes private planes, summers on yachts and indulges in art, jewellery and small dogs.

In my room I was introduced to not one but two butlers, both on call 24 hours a day. I didn't know quite what to do with myself, or indeed them, but they offered champagne and brought my Sunday papers so we got along just fine. Later I found my clothes unpacked and ironed and a rose-strewn bath run for me. I thoroughly enjoyed my stay. The service and ambience were impeccable, but some of the soul of the place seems to have been traded in a Faustian pact with the devil in return for shiny marble and spotless furnishings. Perhaps it will be better when we Londoners have scuffed it up a bit.
Ravinder's book Cook in Boots is out now (HarperCollins)