I just got back from Tesco. Hellish. Personally, I'd rather eat my own liver than have to trolley off to the supermarket more often than once a week. I know they try, Lord Sainsbury and the rest, with their loyalty cards and their promise to open another till if all the others are clogged up with enormous families and their jumbo-packs of crisps. But still the whole process is so inhuman. There's that particular form of lighting that you only find here and on the inside of refrigerators. And there's the South African fruit which smiles at you in a comely fashion, all outer polish like Anthea Turner, only to reveal its empty, tasteless heart when you get it home.

I try to enter a state of suspended animation when I visit my local superstore, a bit like I did when I gave birth. My eyes glaze over. My shoulders slump over the wayward trolley, as it fills with cos lettuces and cartons of soup - which, I know I will ritualistically throw in the bin 10 days later when the lettuce has turned into soup and the soup has turned into something like the stuff that shot from that girl's mouth in The Exorcist.

Until recently - at least for me - going food shopping had all the allure of going to the chiropodist. It was something you did because you had to, but you weren't going to bang on about it in company. But the other day, I overheard two chi-chi Tanias cooing about a new shop they'd just discovered. I tuned in, due to a pathological interest in new places to buy shoes, only to find that they were discussing La Fromagerie. A cheese shop, if you please. Then a style-fiend of a friend called to tell me to get over to Elgin Crescent in Notting Hill, sharpish. A new boutique specialising in Milanese leather goods? A Chanel sale sample? Nope. A grocer. The Grocer on Elgin is what you might call a designer deli. From the outside, it looks just like a Donna Karan boutique. It's all acres of plate glass, walnut fittings and the kind of hushed retail reverence usually reserved for unwearable frocks designed by gay men in Parisian ateliers.

And inside, well... try this on for size: fat little tubs of beetroot pesto, elegant packets of just-made braised peas with Alsace bacon, a saucy-looking cauliflower and white truffle soup. Then there's a very authentic cassoulet, rabbit with Bayonne ham and sage, spiced puy lentils - all of it enrobed in spare, simple, covetable packets, and all of it ready to pop straight into the pan when you get home.

The food at this most fashionable of grocers comes from the Sugar Club kitchen in All Saint's Road. Until recently, it was a very good restaurant, but owner Ashley Sumner closed it for refurbishment, got bored with hanging around for planning permission, and decided to produce upmarket TV dinners instead.

So the meals in those jewel-like vacuum-packs come straight from Sugar Club chefs. The packaging, which is very Gucci-meets-John-Pawson, has been designed by Trevor Flynn, a local artist. And, unexpectedly, the prices are more Pret than Prada: £4.95 for a spot of rabbit stew for two.

Noel Gallagher, Patsy Kensit, Brian Eno and Bernardo Bertolucci are fans - they've all been spotted holding one of the Grocer's brown paper carrier bags - and actress Minnie Driver can't stay away: she's been in twice in the past week.

Of course, there are plenty of posh delis littering the country. Ever since we discovered that presentation bottles of oil and vinegar made rather natty Christmas presents for uninspiring aunts, we have demanded a bit more from our local food shops. But most of these are continental in flavour, with hanks of Parma ham hanging from the ceiling and boxes of Pannatone piled high.

The difference here is that this isn't some ersatz Little Italy. It's Bond Street, sweetie, an excursion to shopping heaven. Pop in for a saffron and asparagus risotto, and there's really no need for a splurge in Ghost. It's guilt-free (hey, we all have to eat), one-size fits all (unless you're a real pot of lard and can get through two packets of stew), and you get a bona fide shopping fix, complete with the tingly sparkle when you run your eye over the products and the vague sense as you leave that something slightly naughty has just occurred.

In my case, something slightly naughty had just occurred: to whit, a chocolate and hazelnut pavlova, which I rather fell for in much the same way as I might moon over a pair of Dior sandals. I bought four, ate two on the way home, and felt high as a kite for an hour. Even a hit from a Chanel sample sale doesn't last that long.

Just one tip, though to Ashley Sumner and all the other smart foodies who recognise designer delis as the way forward: if only you'd stock loo roll, Twiglets and under-arm deodorant, I wouldn't need to shop anywhere else.

· The Grocer on Elgin, tel: 020 7221 3844

How do you get a table when you want it? It all depends on how Michelin-starred you are...

The Waterside Inn, Berkshire Tel: 01628 62691
· Gordon Ramsay (five stars): 'Unfortunately I can't offer you a table. [Mention it's for Ramsay]. Oh, let me call you back... This is no problem, we can do a table for him. Take good care. Thank you. Bye bye.'
· Delia Smith (none): 'We only have tables for nine o'clock. [Mention Delia] No, we just don't have a table at the time she wants I'm afraid.'
· Ainsley Harriet (none):'We only have a table available at 10 o'clock this evening. There simply aren't any tables left. I'm sorry.'

The River Café, London, W6 Tel: 020 7386 4200
· Gordon Ramsay (five stars): 'We're fully booked but I'll just check for Mr Ramsay.... That should be fine.'
· Delia Smith (none): 'We have nothing for that time. [Mention Delia]. Just one moment please... Yep, that's fine. Would she like an outside table?'
· Ainsley Harriet (none): 'We're fully booked this evening, but hold on, I'll just double check. We could do nine o'clock for him but nothing earlier.'

The Sugar Club, London, W1 Tel: 020 7437 7776
· Gordon Ramsay (five stars): 'The first available table we have is at 10 this evening. There's the bar, but I don't think he'll want to sit at the bar! I'm sorry I can't help you.'
· Delia Smith (none): 'Bear with me please... I've only got one table at 10 o'clock. [Mention Delia] I'm sorry we can't arrange the table, that's our policy.'
· Ainsley Harriet (none):'We're completely full. He could have a drink at the bar and see if there are any cancellations. We can't squeeze him in because we are completely and utterly packed.'