Cara Frost-Sharratt - London: The Cookbook: The Story of Londons World-Beating Food Scene, with 50 Recipes from Restaurants, Artisan Producers and Neighbourhoods

One begins to wonder how big Londons appetite can get, as the tummy of the great metropolis grumbles more and more. Eateries grand, plain and simple, or strangely complicated, with every country represented. All are trying to stem this massive hunger. I myself seem to have contributed to this quagmire of kitchens in a mother hen kind of way (cluck cluck), shooing my chickadees out of the nest when they are ready to flee the coop.

With all these new restaurants opening I find the creature of habit in me comes to the fore. I must have bored many people over the years about my love of lunch at Sweetings working chaos in action; a joy to behold. This glorious institution is something that could never be designed; if you did it would seem trite and boring (not to mention senseless), but somehow here the tolerance of surfaces of the old wet fish shop that the restaurant inhabits allows for the rigours of a good lunch.

Also an old favourite is Ikeda on Brook Street. This was a Japanese restaurant before Japanese restaurants became as ubiquitous and homogenised as they so often are today. Here is sushi on blood-temperature rice, dishes of herbs and roots, and an open kitchen which cooks at a purposeful pace, which is hypnotic to watch.

Since you are getting my Pop Pickers Favourites, here is Le Gavroche for me the home of comfort. The waiters glide, you glide yourself, and indeed everything glides once you are in. There was one occasion on which the gliding got the better of me: lunching with a friend after a late night, Chef de Rang was slicing our chicken and I dropped off just as he was about to sauce my plate. I woke with a start just before I hit the chicken with my nose and before I received an earful of sauce. Disaster was averted, though it left both me and the waiter a bit shaky.

Excuse me if I seem a little insular when it comes to the London food scene. I assure you that this is not the case. You are as likely to find me in the delightful BAO as at Cipriani. On the other hand, I am a chap who was described in one of St. Johns first reviews as being 200 years out of date.

I have a cabbage theory, based on an evening that I spent in Rome with some young groovers who spent the whole night discussing punterelle, the Roman bitter green chicory. The day I hear London hipsters talk about an English cabbage with such love I will know that London has truly become as food-aware as it feels. I think we are getting there those small farmers markets sprouting up all over the city give one hope. For example, Kennington, the market nearest us at home, sells extra thick raw cream, which is wonderful when scooped liberally onto pudding. Then there is the butcher who, when asked whether he had any more lambs kidneys, replied that the lamb only has two. These are life-affirming moments.

Fergus Henderson