The Capital

Mea culpa. A few weeks ago I reviewed a restaurant and mentioned that it was located in the last privately owned five-star hotel in London. Only it wasn't. Cue a deluge of fury from fans of The Capital Hotel, which has been in the hands of the Levin family for decades and which I had neglected to mention.

To make amends properly (and because it's close to some of my favourite shops), I decided to have lunch there after a long, long gap. The last time I ate at The Capital was over ten years ago - a raucous affair with a political journalist - and my one abiding memory is that I was served the worst tomato juice of my life.

Tucked away in a mansion-filled street, my first sight of the hotel was as cheering as a bunch of MPs baiting the Speaker. Seasonal greenery, dotted with fairy lights and woven with scarlet ribbons, was looped along the outside railings, giving the hotel a properly festive air on a cold December day. And a good thing, too. With its carols, candles, presents, parties and focus on the family, we all love Christmas deep down, despite our conflicting desire to be cynical about it.

Because it's a smart hotel, The Capital has a smart doorman, and the foyer was dominated by a beautiful fir tree hung with scented cinnamon. Smiling staff scoop up your coats and whisk you into the blond-wood interior of the restaurant. It's all rather sleek and shipshape - in fact, it's very much like being in an upmarket dining room on board a cruise ship, as there's that sense of being cosseted from the world outside. The tables are ideally spaced (so you can be fabulously indiscreet), and the chairs are hot pink and swirly.

I was meeting the romantic novelist (how she loved those chairs), who had been correcting a manuscript which she let me take a look at. Skating through several overblown paragraphs about someone called Riccardo soon had me in need of a glass of champagne. (That'll be the last thing to go in the credit crunch.)

Ah, the champagne - it was delicious. We were given a choice of two, both served by the glass. The Capital has not one but two sommeliers (both very French), who were so passionate about the wines on offer we could have sat listening to them all day.

The fixed-price menu is small but perfectly formed. Actually, I prefer limited menus - too much choice gives me a headache and often proves too taxing for the kitchen. My egg meurette, which was poached in red wine and served beneath a show-stopping glass dome, had a yolk that was spot-on and was quite delicious. The novelist plumped for goat's cheese and apple salad (she considers herself a bit of an expert on goat's cheese) and said her dish tasted so fresh she could imagine a frisky bunch of kids gambolling about on a Swiss mountain.

Her grilled halibut with seared calamari and white bean salad had her drooling. She said the fish was exceptionally fresh and as white as Britney Spears' teeth, while the calamari and beans added

texture and flavour. My sole was remarkable. So often you're given a piece of fish as thin and miserable as a size-zero model, but this was a healthy chunk, accompanied by fresh foie gras tagliatelle. In that casual way we've perfected, we looked round at the other diners while pretending to admire the décor. They were a surprising and egalitarian mixture of people from four rather exotic men who were clearly there for the afternoon to tousle-haired fashionistas who must work nearby. Everyone looked lazy and relaxed - the mood was Henley on a sunny afternoon, even though outside flakes of snow had begun to flutter down.

We declined pudding, mainly because I had spotted the petits fours and homemade chocolates that accompanied coffee, and which were sublime. The staff are attentive and, at £27.50 for two courses in a two-Michelin-starred restaurant, this is probably one of the best-value meals you'll find at the high end of the market. In fact, I'll go further. It's also some of the best cooking. If I were the man from Michelin, I would take myself to Basil Street and sprinkle another star on this superb restaurant. After all, it is Christmas.