Locals have lot to learn in Notting Hill lair

The same is true of politicians: it’s much easier to understand them once you’ve seen them in the wild. Margaret Thatcher was easier to figure out once you’d visited her father’s shop in Grantham. You could appreciate why thrift, a hatred of inflation, a belief in family and a strong structure of moral values were in her DNA. And chippy John Major made more sense once you saw the impoverished background he came from in Brixton.

So, with the Tory row over grammar schools showing no sign of abating – a stupid, manufactured argument that will do the Conservative party no good at all – I decided to take myself to Notting Hill, and the lair of the Cameroons, to see if I could understand ‘Dave’ better. Somebody has to.

I wanted somewhere as Notting Hill as Hugh Grant – who doesn’t actually live here but starred in the film – so I chose Rosa’s Dining Room. Stella McCartney was once rumoured to have smiled here – a pretty rare event – when her mysterious husband (well, who and what is he?) threw a surprise dinner for her.

The room is dark wood and retro in feel. I took my actress friend, who knows a thing or two about interior design. Even before a drink had been served, her almond eyes scanned the room and she announced, ‘The décor is trying hard not to be décor.’ (Just as the Cameroons are trying hard not to be Tories.)

She also thought the place used to be a coffee shop, which was confirmed by our helpful maître d’, whose jeans, sandals and Clement Freud beard would look quite at home at a Lib Dem conference. So Rosa’s is the gaff that used to be a caff – and to some extent has succeeded in creating a happy café atmosphere. The tables are covered in flowery oil-cloths and on the wall was an ancient picture of the Queen – opposite one of the King (Elvis, that is).

The food was retro, too, but it was much too hot for a speciality pie. We started with summer fare, asparagus and pea soup, followed by risotto and cutlets. It was fine – but the lamb was a bit tough.

We try – and usually fail – not to have pudding and this was no exception: yummy apple pie and the Pavlova, which was surprisingly good (meringue is often dud unless it’s homemade). The wine list was, as you’d expect, comprehensive. But perhaps I shouldn’t mention education. I’ll leave that to Dave.

As for the other diners, well, they were young, hip and affluent (which they’d need to be, since Rosa’s isn’t cheap). At 41, I felt positively old – you’d never get Ming Campbell in here. And I suspect it’s a fairly gregarious place. Another guest went to the ladies and discovered two diners involved in something that looked like the Heimlich manoeuvre but wasn’t being done for medical reasons. ‘Ooh, I do love Notting Hill,’ she said gleefully, on her return – but then she is a journalist.

So, did this experience help me understand the Notting Hill Tories and their obsession with outLabouring New Labour? It certainly did – because the one thing that was evident in charming, trendy Rosa’s is that modern Britain doesn’t intrude here. No old people; no immigrants; no students; uniformly white, rich faces with private education and health. The people here – a lovely bunch – don’t have a clue what life is like outside the cosy world of the metropolitan elite. Which probably explains why the Tories appear to have nothing relevant to say to Britain outside the M25.

I’d be happy to eat there again; but I’m not yet convinced the locals are ready to run the country.

Rosa's Dining Room
Westbourne Park Road, London, W2 5QH