Ciao Bella

On an almost-deserted weekday street between Russell Square and Holborn, there's an old-fashioned English-as-they-come pub called The Lamb. The bar is encased in a complex carved wood and glass structure with flaps like windows that spin around so you can see the barperson. It's ace, a real 'find', somewhere to take wide-eyed American visitors to drink warm ale and choke in the cigar smoke, (until July anyway). Just next door the pavement is flanked with tiny outdoor tables with blue cloths. A white-haired man eats a plate of parma ham, he's holding a wide glass of Chianti in his liver-spotted hand. A tall girl with a Russian hat and extremely long legs kisses a guy in a trilby as they fall, laughing, through the door. A fat family with two shiny-faced children sit in a circle devouring garlic bread and olives. This is Ciao Bella, probably the best Italian restaurant in England. I'm not a hugely sentimental person, but this place gives me a warm feeling, somewhere under my chest, and for a moment, I can pretend I'm on holiday in Italy... the waiters are from my parents' generation, they're professionals, nothing is too much trouble, limoncello is cold and sharp in my throat. I'll take you there one day, and you'll feel what I'm saying.