Would I spend an hour in an expensive black cab, 10 miles across central London, to eat at a restaurant? Even if Piers Morgan is on the next table? It would appear that the answer is a resounding yes.

I am meeting friends (one of whom is notoriously late) at La Palombe, an unassuming place on a quiet bit of Kensington High Street. With four of us travelling all the way from north London, by the time we are all present and correct we are wanting food immediately. I had spotted pre-starters on the menu, so it was time to order a Negroni and relax whilst our party took time looking at the (mercilessly short) menu.

I stop to greet James Chiaverini, who I know from Il Portico, his flagship joint a minute away, London’s oldest Italian restaurant. It has, in recent years, become known amongst feminists as TERF HQ, and where regular TERF NATO meetings are held. In June last year, James hosted a fundraiser for one of JK Rowling’s charities, Lumos, that was focused on Ukrainian children orphaned as a result of the war. When trans activists heard about it, they put Il Portico’s window in, and left a raft of fake, one star reviews online. It backfired spectacularly. Not only did the restaurant subsequently appear in one of Rowling’s Strike novels, swathes of us began to travel from far and wide to eat there. The place is busy every day, but James somehow fits us in.

But, for our Christmas feminist group outing, we decide to try La Palombe, worried that we have become institutionalised.

On arrival, I see James’ Italian truffle dog Alba is in her bed beside the bar. As I can see from the menu, which includes her latest forage, her work for the day is done. 

First the amuse-bouche, and a bottle of a white St Joseph from Bernard Gripa: a silky, peppery wine, robust enough for the strong flavours of South West France. First come the olives, and what olives! Sitting amongst a pile of sweet and sharp oven-dried tomatoes and plump garlic cloves, I could easily eat a whole plateful as my main course. But competing with them is the duck liver parfait dotted on homemade oat cake, slightly sweet, and pickled blackberries and bread with whipped butter, sea salt and radishes.

Jake Leach is chef patron, and when he appears to say hello I am pleased to note he is not dressed like a cross between an 18th century carpenter and the head honcho of a violent biker gang. Head Chef at the 3 Michelin-starred Ledbury at 22, the boy can cook.

I look for something to criticise, listening keenly for Christmas music, and looking for anyone unhappy

I had been put off eating octopus by the Netflix film My Octopus Teacher. But seeing it on the menu, I figured that since I would never be getting to know a live one, I may as well become familiar with the taste of it chargrilled over hot fire. I am so glad I opted to eat it, rather than go for a swim with it. It is caramelised, soft and pleasantly chewy, on a puddle of Provençale sauce.

Tartar is a must on any decent menu these days, and here it’s chalk stream trout served with the perfect balance of capers, shallots and pickled lemon. Jake likes pickling.

For the mains, James recommends a Trousseau from Jura, blackberry and pine scented, and smooth as butter.

La Palombe means “the wood pigeon”, an ingredient I don’t like. But I am very keen on the rabbit dish I have as my main course, served with boudin noir (black pudding), roasted shallot and mustard sauce. There’s a mousse made from the rabbit’s legs, with tarragon, parsley and chervil, which has been piped into the rabbit saddle before being wrapped in pigs’ intestines.

To my immediate left, a duck confit was being consumed so fast it was like a speeded-up film. My neighbour finished her starter and then told me it was succulent, moist, melt-in-the-mouth with perfectly crisped skin, sitting on a nest of celeriac in mayo. She need not have bothered — she could have just allowed me a small forkful.

“This is the best broccoli you will have ever tasted,” says James as he brings a dish of bright green tenderstem to the table. This was one of the sides. The others were decent, rosemary salted chips, and a green salad. He was right of course: glistening with good olive oil and vinegar, and chargrilled to perfection, it had the right amount of bite, and was an ideal accompaniment to my rabbit.

The menu changes most days, to make best use of whatever foraged herbs and berries (or whatever else) they can get their hands on. Alba gets the truffles when they are in season, which means that during this period they can be ordered without tripling the bill. The day we are there, it is served on toast alongside the wild mushroom and garlic velouté ordered by two of our party, who declare it “utterly divine” and “totally delicious”. I get a tiny taste of Iberian pork pâté served alongside an apple and pistachio chutney before it is scarfed.

Duck makes its second appearance, this time as a main course, with orange sauce and braised chicory. There is cote de boeuf for two. But for me, it is all about the rabbit.

I wanted to try the Klein Constantia dessert wine, so we asked for some ice-creams and a crème brûlée to share. And what ice-creams they were. Pistachio, raspberry, vanilla, dark chocolate sorbet, chocolate and hazelnut. And it was no ordinary brûlée. Cooked low and slow, Jake uses UHT whipping cream which makes a smooth texture without the bubbles you get with fresh cream.

Some madeleines appear, hot from the oven. The sweet wine is downed. We can’t manage another bite. 

The service is impeccable, the atmosphere relaxed. I look for something to criticise, listening keenly for Christmas music, and glancing around to check if anyone looks unhappy. At last, I find something. Bloody sourdough, served with at least two appetisers. My views on this dreadful stuff are well known, but James is unrepentant. 

La Palombe has a freshly-foraged biodynamic, a sustainable “return to the earth and seasons” feel about the ingredients — but there’s nothing worthy or pious or pretentious about it. James lives his food values: he has a small organic farm, loves hunting, and genuinely believes we can return to the old ways of gathering and cooking food. I’ve spoken to him at length about this (James, as my old dad would say, could talk a glass eye to sleep).

There’s nothing posturing or gimmicky about this approach, either — and nor are there any of those awful “natural” wines that taste of wet dog. One of the friends there with me drinks tea with her meals, as though she is in a chippy in the north east. James accommodates her without judgement, even though I was telling him that she’d be asking for the ketchup next. “If she wants ketchup, she can have ketchup”. That’s the sort of place La Palombe is. It would take more than the presence of Piers Morgan to put me off coming back.