THE KITCHEN KING OF KENSINGTON

BRUCE PALLING | UNCORKED

Kensington Place

Malcolm Edwards/Flickr

Kensington Place was full, fashionable and seriously foodie for 20 years. Bruce Palling even took his wife there on their first date. Now he wonders if KP's founding chef, Rowley Leigh, can recreate his old magic in a new restaurant down the road ...

Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE

In 1990s London if you casually said you couldn't stay for lunch because you were "off to KP," it meant one of two things. That you were a friend of Princess Diana's, or of Rowley Leigh's. Little danger of mistaking them, though. One was a manipulative, unhappy socialite, the other a contented chef.

We all know what she looked like: earnest caring face with the chin down to show how modest she really was. Whereas Rowley exuded (and still does) a friendly yet dazed sense of distraction, as if flies were in a holding pattern around his head. The only danger of confusion (initials aside) lay in proximity. Diana had Kensington Palace. Rowley had another institution a few hundred yards away to the north, his restaurant, Kensington Place, which opened in 1987. The traffic between them was one-way. You might occasionally see Diana on a banquette at Rowley's KP; I never heard talk of vice-versa.

What is the formula that makes certain restaurants around the globe the ground zero for whatever the prevailing trends were in their heyday? There are a number I can think of, that have or have had this gift of capturing buzz and ensuring a good time whether diurnal or nocturnal. In New York, I think of Union Square Café and Balthazar; in Paris, Brasserie Lipp and Bofinger; in Sydney, Kinsellas and Bayswater Brasserie; in Melbourne, Jimmy Watsons and Miettas; in San Francisco, Zuni's and Chez Panisse (only upstairs though). London is trickier because of its tribal nature, but in the West London media world that is my natural habitat it was definitely Alastair Little's 192 for a quite a time, and then Kensington Place for 20 years.

KP, just around the corner from Waterstones' bookshop in Notting Hill, was such a media haunt that the senior staff at the BBC and the entire newsroom of the Evening Standard down the road used it as their canteen until expenses cutbacks put paid to this perk. Because of its casual yet boho-chic air, it was also perfect for a first date. It was here that David Cameron first took his wife Samantha, as did I (not with Mrs Cameron, but with similar results).

And then there were the characters. I loved the Lebanese gentleman who came most days and always drank a bottle of Krug (he has now emigrated to the River Café) or the cranky granny who always complained the food wasn't hot enough. She finally ceased when Simon Slater returned to the table with a blow torch--"Perhaps Madam, this will help". Or the gloomy Yorkshireman who stays slumped over his favourite table near the entrance most lunches until closing time, muttering under his breath about this dish not being up to par or complaining when his West End final Evening Standard isn't delivered on time.

I dread to recall what the precise five figure sum is that I have invested in KP during two decades but it is of tertiary importance compared with the return in pleasure and a certain nostalgic anchoring, especially when I was living or travelling abroad. There are many times when I would leave after a meal with my luggage on a short journey to Paris, or return from India and head straight there for lunch with an old friend. I fear that I really haven't described why it was such a comfortable place to be--it wasn't the appearance, which was vaguely Hockneyesque with its stark full-sized display window with an equally large mural on the rear wall. The early chairs were a nightmare too, with their nursery-like appearance and semi-circular sides that allowed coats to skid off to the floor. And as for the wine glasses--if I really wanted to taste either a great bottle from the wine list or even to drink my own, I would always bring a clutch of Riedel glasses because the local ones were dishwasher-thick and too shallow for swirling.

No, the unique ingredients were the staff (inspired by Nick Smallwood and Simon Slater), the buzz from the customers and yes, the 800 pound gorilla I haven't really mentioned yet--Rowley and the food!

For a long time, KP was the only place I could confidently recommend to foodie friends in Paris, Rome, San Francisco and Bangkok, because, no matter how high or low you imagined yourself in the food chain, Rowley delivered exciting dishes--such as griddled foie gras on a sweet-corn pancake, chicken and goat's cheese mousse with olives, plus the glorious grilled scallops with pea purée and mint vinaigrette. The menu changed twice a day, so there was a vast choice of what is roughly known as Modern British, but more accurately is creative-brasserie. One food critic regularly came by himself in the autumn, washed down a dozen oysters with some Chablis, and then moved on to a Grouse with a bottle of Gevrey Chambertin. Others just loved the fact that there was always something interesting that you simply had to try.

Late last year Rowley finally ended his KP connection, some years after his original partners sold out. The restaurant has passed to a catering group called D&D--which, old clients joke unfairly, stands for Dumb and Dumber. Certainly, it was a bit of a shock to see that Fay Maschler dropped KP off her recent Evening Standard list of 50 places where she would happily spend her own money. I sort-of know what she meant, after my most recent lunch this week. Because it is now chain-run, there are far fewer staff, and they are admonished if they wear anything bright or non-black in the tie department. It feels as if portion control has conquered the kitchen.

Nor are the clients any longer my freewheeling friends swapping gossip and sleaze. I spotted one lone old hack from the Evening Standard, at the bar by himself. The new clients look more suited and professional, and they are not present in the same density as before. Lunch was always the real thing, while evenings tended to be dominated by a bridge-and-tunnel crowd (anyone who lived outside W8 or W11). The same thing happened to Langan's after Peter immolated himself. The brand still plays on although with an entirely different crowd.

My last lunch at KP was still quite accomplished: linguine with mussels and saffron, vegetable risotto, roast pigeon with root vegetables. But somehow joyless. Fortunately, there is now the prospect of a successor. Rowley is opening his new place, the Café des Anglais, next week in the improbable site of the Whiteleys shopping centre in neighbouring Bayswater. There will be a separate entrance with a lift, two huge rotisseries, and all-day opening hours.

Can it work? We will have to wait and see--but not for very long, as I am off for a pre launch dinner on Tuesday.

I don't foresee returning to KP unless a friend insists, but no reason to be sad or nostalgic. Any place that captures an era or a vibe is, almost by definition, going to have a limited lifespan. So when you do find yourself totally at ease in a restaurant, enjoy it while you can. On that basis, 20 years of pleasure was a pretty reasonable stretch.