Clarke’s

124 Kensington Church St, London

Everyone from Lucian Freud to Aung San Suu Kyi has been won over by this beautiful restaurant…

A bowl of ‘first of the season’ cherries from France, served on ice – as you do – is a thoroughly decent way to end a meal. Light, refreshing and flavoursome, like pretty much every item on Sally Clarke’s menu. It’s the kind of food that doesn’t induce a carb-loaded stupor and render you unable to do anything post-lunch or dinner, but, instead, invigorates with the season’s best, put together with the deftest of culinary touches. Asparagus with hollandaise, broad beans and chive blossoms; turbot with tartare sauce, spring cabbage and potato pancake; veal chop with sage glaze, crisp shallots and leaf spinach – flavour combinations that just make sense.

Such an approach to food has seen Clarke’s become a firm favourite among well-heeled locals, who include a fair few of the more understated celebrities – because if there’s one thing Clarke’s isn’t, then that’s brash. It was Lucian Freud’s regular haunt for both breakfast and lunch – ‘He loved the fresh fish,’ says Sally – and, recently, none other than Burmese opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi paid a visit. She no doubt enjoyed the air of calm and cool – with a touch of California – that pervades throughout. The staff are polite without being stuffy, the linen crisp and white and everything elegant and tastefully done. The flowers, chosen by Sally’s 82-year-old mother, who’s driven up from Surrey every Monday to carry out the task since the restaurant opened in 1984, give the place the feel of a conservatory – in the nicest possible way.

The California vibe is no mistake – Sally took much of her inspiration, from the daily changing menu and rigidly eating the seasons to the no-choice menu she started with, from Alice Waters, of Chez Panisse in Berkeley. Having spent time working there before opening up on her own, Sally regards the American as a mentor and friend – they regularly exchange ideas – and even has a dish in her honour: a goat’s cheese baked in breadcrumbs with herbs on a bed of baby leaves, olive oil and a squeeze of lemon.

You can’t blame Freud for eating at Clarke’s every day – it truly is that kind of place – and if you could, you would, hence the reason the adjoining shop sells everything from jellies and pickles to breads and pastries. It even supplies Eurostar with croissants, and if that isn’t a victory for the British, then I don’t know what is. AM.