People love titles. Countess, Lord, Princess, even Right Honourable, all have a certain fairy-tale ring to them. My favourite is Marchioness. But the title of Commander goes one step further. It implies bravery. Derring-do. This is all according to the actress, whom I was meeting for lunch and who once had a doomed love affair with a Commander in the Royal Navy. And what she doesn't know about submarines and parking ships (yes, that's the term they use) could be written on the back of a stamp.

'I don't know if I can bear to go there - it'll bring back too many memories,' she declared dramatically, when she heard that the name of the restaurant was the same as her erstwhile lover. But she became much more amenable when I suggested taking someone else instead.

Situated just off Westbourne Grove, the restaurant's exterior carries no clues as to its seafaring provenance - it's more Dixon of Dock Green than Captain Pugwash - with beautiful, shiny, over-sized lanterns hanging over the sail-like claret awning. Inside, it's a clean and uncluttered space, with a pleasing sea of terracotta, cream and black tiles. Wood gleams. Glasses sparkle. Everything is shipshape.

The well-stocked bar is spacious and on it stood a display of flowers so pretty that the actress momentarily forgot about the screensaver she'd once had of her Commander brandishing a machete (he used to hack open coconuts, apparently). On further investigation, we discovered that the restaurant has joined forces with a City florist, and that you can buy bouquets here. Just as you can buy seafood, shellfish, and meat sourced from a farm on the Yorkshire moors. Because

The Commander is not so much a restaurant as an upmarket cooperative designed to serve the local community. By sourcing their own products and cutting out the middleman, the aim is to bring fresh food and flowers to the customer at a fraction of the normal price. It makes such good sense that you instinctively want the idea to work.

Steering away from the à la carte and the crustaceans nestling provocatively on a bed of crushed ice, we decided to order from the lunch menu (priced at a low £15.95 for three courses). The actress began with deep-fried whitebait, a retro starter that is enjoying a revival. They were delicious, the batter lighter and more peppery than I've eaten before, and the lemon mayonnaise was a nice touch. My Greek platter, while a touch hefty to begin a three-course meal, was just perfect. The hummus was nutty and the olives excellent. In particular, the warm soutzouki sausage was so good that we asked the waitress where we could buy it. Alas, the supplier only does wholesale.

My main-course lamb shank was another robust portion and arrived on a creamy mound of caramelised garlic mash. 'That's a real man-sized portion,' sighed the actress in a wistful tone I've grown wary of. I hastily turned her attention away from any more seafaring reminiscing and asked her to assess her baked mackerel fillet. She loved it, and thoroughly approved of the colourful pile of wok-fried Oriental vegetables. We ordered a bowl of chips that were extraordinarily moreish. A nine-star chip indeed.

Purely in the line of duty (sorry, I can't seem to rid myself of these naval puns), we sampled pudding. Choice was limited to two (or cheese, at a small supplement): chocolate tart ( unfortunately, the pastry wasn't light enough) and a big bowl of fruit salad with the bite-sized pieces of ordinary fruit that your mother might have constructed at teatime on a Sunday.

Now is a tough time to embark on a new venture, but the refurbished Commander is worth a visit. Maybe two. At weekends they have a crèche, so parents can enjoy a quiet meal while their little lovelies network upstairs. There are also beautiful rooms to hire. Without doubt, this is currently the best bargain lunch in London. As we left, the actress mused that sailors don't get paid much, and that her Commander would definitely approve of the prices. An admirable sentiment.