Robert Hardman

THE cookbook, the polenta, the quiz, the New Labour grandees — what would Lon- don be without the River Café? Head west of Kensington, darling, and where else can one find a decent meal this side of the Cotswolds?

The River Café does churn out extremely good food. Hammersmith's flagship restau- rant is not exactly on the river and, at more than £50 a head, it is not your average café. Reserving a table requires a deposit and the punters are chucked out at 11 p.m. — a rule established by the neighbours rather than the management. But such quirks have done nothing to dent its position as the high table of the New Establishment, a safe haven for those with Tuscan tastes and Tony's telephone number.

It is, though, a devil to find. This is not a problem for those arriving by taxi (or, in many cases, limousines) but it was a prob- lem for me two weeks ago as I wandered down from Hammersmith Tube under an increasingly threatening sky. Lost down a backstreet next to a council estate, I passed another restaurant. Painted on to a grimy white wall were the words The Gate Vege- tarian Restaurant'. Next to it was a dark, unprepossessing window showing no signs of life. 'Poor things,' I thought. 'They must have gone bust. No passing trade. Too many carnivores. Or else they've been eclipsed by the great River Café, wherever it is.'

I thought no more about it until earlier this week, when I needed somewhere to eat in the same area. Flicking through the west London section of a restaurant guide, I saw The Gate again. It warranted only a brief mention but the adjectives were glowing.

My only previous experience of an avowedly vegetarian restaurant was a nasty basement quiche-joint at university, but I was intrigued by this forlorn hideaway. I rang to check that it was still going and found life at the end of the telephone. After a weekend of excellent roasts, some- thing green was probably no bad thing. My dinner companion was delighted. Topaz has an allergy to fish and anything else that swims. Even a whiff of duck can bring het out in hives.

There was still no sign of life in the gloomy window but that is because it has nothing to do with the restaurant, which lives up to its name: you have to go through a gate at the side. Beyond is a tidy, floodlit courtyard in front of a Georgian house with a blue plaque in honour of the artist Sir Frank Brangwyn and steps leading up to a first-floor entrance.

Inside was an airy, deep-yellow room Sir Frank's studio — with vast windows looking down on to the courtyard. Today, large pop-art dot paintings hang from a tall white ceiling, while a few vegetables sit along the windowsill like a premature har- vest festival.

`Not too much knit-your-own-yoghurt here,' observed Topaz approvingly, scan- ning a crowd no different from that which might be found at the River Café: a few suits, a lot of people in black, someone vaguely recognisable who Topaz thought was a ballerina.

Stereotypes about beards, sandals and health freaks can be left at the door. I expected a turning of heads and some feigned choking when I lit my first cigarette, but no one stirred. The same goes for the menu, which had no mention of the words 'quiche', 'nut cutlet' or 'tofu'.

There were plenty of ordinary starters: a `I'm sorry, I'm not here right now, leave your name and number and I'll get back to you.' gazpacho, a caesar salad or a spinach roulade, all for a fiver or less. But we omni- vores do not go to vegetarian restaurants for any old menu minus the meat. I wanted the weird stuff. An asterisk denoted that the green banana fritters were vegan really weird. Similarly unusual was the involtini: parcels of aubergine, mushroom and peppers wrapped in a tight sesame coating (and offered in either vegan or plain vegetarian form).

Neither of us is a great aubergine eater and I had feared a dull mush. In fact, the involtini was surprisingly spicy and crisp. Imagine a spring roll/sesame prawn hybrid in a Chinese restaurant. Even better were the green banana fritters. They sounded like the sort of thing dished up by a chalet girl after the chicken kiev, but they turned out to be a subtle, chewy blend of sweet- and-sour, lime and curry. There is a vegan hinterland after all.

Next came a trio of tortillas; one pump- kin, one beetroot and feta, one bean. I have always found that there are two ways of serving beetroot: either throw it in the bin or put it on a plate and throw it in the bin later. This version was actually edible, cun- ningly disguised by a layer of mint. The bean tortilla was as good as any Tex-Mex, the pumpkin smooth, tangy and vaguely reminiscent of a crepe aux fruits de mer.

Topaz enjoyed her girolle rosti, a huge baked beef tomato stuffed with oyster mushrooms, although she experienced a `Happy Eater moment' when the tomato gave way to honest fry-up in the form of the rosti. A lemon-dominated lemon, lime and blueberry brill& and a plate of English cheese rounded off a dinner which left nei- ther of us feeling any meat deprivation.

Despite its obscure location, The Gate was still busy late on a Monday night, testimony to a loyal clientele who regard it primarily as a good restaurant rather than a meat-free zone. Not all the staff are vegetarian, Chef Richard Whiting, an 'American vegetarian' (eats fish but not meat), joined five years ago after tiring of a Twickenham bistro where his duties included skinning live eels and prepar- ing brains. 'It's just a much nicer environ- ment when you are cooking in a kitchen without meat or fish,' he says. I am sure that there are many who would prefer to keep The Gate as one of those `best-kept-secret' sort of places. Lunch, I imagine, must be civilised, with the light streaming through Sir Frank's huge win- dows and extra tables out in the courtyard. It is certainly not trumpeting its merits from the rooftops. But diners should be aware that there is more than one class act in Hammersmith's riverside labyrinth.

The Gate Vegetarian Restaurant, 51 Queen Caroline Street, London W6 (0181 748 6932). Three-course dinner for two with wine: £60. Closed Saturday lunch and all-day Sunday.

The author is a columnist and reporter for the Daily Telegraph.