Try as one might, sophisticated foodstuffs and a recalcitrant small person go together about as well as fishfingers and marmalade jus. I blame the parents: my 22-month-old son was subjected to garlic when he was so young it was probably illegal. Before his first birthday he was a big fan of my delicious toasted banana-and-avocado sandwiches, too - until the day a well-meaning relative exclaimed 'uuuurgh! What on earth are you feeding him? It looks vile!' - at which point Jackson put down the sandwich, scrunched up his nose and bellowed 'Noooooo!'
The final nail in the gastro-coffin occurred when we took him to the opening of Gordon Ramsay's family-friendly (ie those are the only F-words allowed on the premises) Boxwood Cafe at London's Berkeley Hotel, where Jackson had a run-in with a rocket leaf and regurgitated his chicken strips all over, well, everything.
'Aha!' exclaimed a waiter of enormous charm and Frenchness, 'zees ees zee firz seeek of the day! I muz show Gordon!' In order to avoid 'Seeek of the Day' becoming Jackson's culinary speciality, his father and I decided to steer clear of proper restaurants for a while, biding our time until we felt we were all ready. Unfortunately this coincided with Jackson deciding he prefers his food both British and bland: cauliflower cheese is his Beluga.
A couple of years ago, while heavily pregnant, I made pasta (for OFM ) in the kitchen of Giorgio Locatelli's lovely Locanda. 'You must bring him here some day!' said Giorgio, smiling and pointing at my belly. So, what feels like several light years (not to mention innumerable upended bowls of foodstuffs and forceful 'No's') later, I make the call. Giorgio does a convincing impression of somebody who is delighted by the idea: 'Saturday lunch here is very good for families,' he declares. He's discreet about his celebrity regulars, but I know that Madonna, Guy, Lourdes and Rocco are fans, probably because Locanda Locatelli is that very rare and wonderful thing - a glamorous, gorgeous Michelin-starred restaurant with the happy atmosphere of your friendly local trat. This is down to the proprietor and staff who manage to make a couple with a squealing toddler feel like royalty.
On arrival, at 1.30, we are greeted with smiles and conveyed to a well-appointed table where, miraculously, instead of a soundproofed screen and a pair of mini-handcuffs, waiters furnish us with grissini and a beautifully upholstered high chair. The vibe is warm and inclusive, there is chin-chucking and cooing and Jackson, recognising that he's not going to be treated as a liability, starts to sprout wings.
The key to successful dining with a toddler is all about distraction and, ideally, getting the food into them PDQ. To this end Giorgio rustles up a plate of gnocchi with a tomato sauce. Rejected almost instantaneously by Jackson, it's swiftly replaced by a bowl of fresh buttered pasta, which is a huge hit, while the featherbed of garlicky foccacia even elicits a stagy 'Mmm!' Meanwhile the grown-up sized fork and spoon proves to be distractingly percussive (though none of the other diners - and the place is full - are calling for us to be ejected yet). In the event Junior ends up sitting in his high chair on angelic best behaviour for a record-breaking 45 minutes. Still, a British parent's self-consciousness around the behaviour of small children is so ingrained that, when Giorgio suggests I let Jackson run around. ('Really, it's fine. If people don't like children they don't have to come to my restaurant') I find myself attempting to resist. Indeed, there's almost a tussle until Giorgio insists that we must relax and enjoy our food (a pork fillet in fruit mustard with Lamon beans, a fillet of beef in Marsala with seasonal veg and lemon spinach. Both perfect) and whisks Jackson off into the kitchen for a tasting session.
'Cooking!' shouts Jackson when they eventually emerge. I could kiss Giorgio. In fact, after another glass of wine, I will. It is an enormously pleasant afternoon, the service is typically attentive and unpretentious, Jackson enjoys himself and therefore so do we. It's nearly 4 pm when we finally leave, just behind Jackson's new best friends, Gavin Rossdale and Gwen Stefani, but before Rachel Hunter.
We Brits have an inbuilt cultural resistance to the idea of allowing children in restaurants even though we know the Italians have exactly the right attitude. Bottom line: if you don't treat kids like potential mini-terrorists, they probably won't be; and if they develop a crush on the chef and the maitre d' (thanks, Roberto), they may even be tempted to try the chargrilled squid with chilli and garlic. Proud? I was fit to burst long before my mousse di cioccolato bianco e gelato al caffe.
· Three course lunch for two-and a bit with wine and service: £115. Locanda Locatelli, 8 Seymour Street, London W1 (tel: 020 7935 1149)
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall returns next month
