Chiltern Firehouse deserves its fame. But check your credit limits before you go.

Google "Chiltern Firehouse", and you're likely to find as much about it being an "in" spot for the celebrity set as you are to see people talking about its food. Since it opened in 2014, this remodelled Victorian Firehouse in Marylebone has been the spot to see and be seen. Tables have been rarer than foie gras in California ... so I was delighted when a friend pulled in a favour to grab us one last week.

I was looking forward to the experience, but wasn't expecting that much from the food. Wafer-thin actresses whose idea of dinner is a small plate of greens are hardly my go-to arbiters of fine dining. I'm delighted to say: how wrong I was!

The Chiltern Firehouse delivered an extraordinary meal, notable for its confident and creative balance of textures. There were beautifully complementary wines, genial service and a buzzy atmosphere. The drawback? It's priced for those celebrity diners. Even for those accustomed to London fine dining prices, this is a save-up-for-a-special-occasion restaurant. I have done the chef's menu, with wine flight, at several Michelin star places for the same amount I spent on three a la carte courses, my share of two bottles of wine (between four) and coffee here.

My starter of roast garlic custard with peas, broad beans and bacon crumb gave me my first insight into the textural experience that was to define the evening for me. Custard unctuously smooth and comforting, balanced by the bite of fresh garden peas lightly cooked to a sweet al dente, kicked into the taste stratosphere by crunchy, salty, umami bacon crumbs. One of the most memorable starters I've had in ages.

The whole table wanted the day's special sea bass. We'd ordered, and chosen and started on the wine (a Gavi, at £37 one of the cheaper wines on the list) when the waiter came back with apologies that they were all out. Given that we sat down at the unusually early time of 6:30, that's a black mark against their kitchen management. The advantage, however, was that it pushed two of us into ordering the pork, and the other two into a shared, roasted lamb served Middle-Eastern style with flatbread and an array of tiny sides.

I sampled the latter. Even though lamb is my least-favourite meat, I would have happily tucked in with gusto. But my choice was far better. Iberico pork, perfectly pink and beautifully seasoned, with cuttlefish, served with a wild garlic puree topped with broad beans and broken rice porridge. The last bit brought in that crunch again. As did toasted spices strewn atop the exquisite truffled buckwheat polenta I had on the side. This is a serious candidate for a last-meal-on-Earth discussion.

And the food was made even better by the appearance of schioppetino on the menu. Not only did its light, yet fruit-rich and peppery profile go well with both meat choices ... it worked its usual treat of shortcutting to a great relationship with the sommelier. (For another story of how that happened, read this.) When I shared my delight about the appearance of this unusual variety on their list, he immediately grew enthusiastic and we swapped stories about our schioppetino experiences. Ten minutes later, he quietly appeared at my elbow and slipped me a glass of something, on the house, he thought I might appreciate trying. An impressive '92 Saint-Julien Bordeaux. Which, at least in part, eased the pain over moving up to a much more expensive wine to match our alternative main courses.

Dessert presented a challenge. Key lime pie? As every Floridian knows (and, having spent all my formative holidays there, I claim honorary affiliation), a key lime is a specific variety that only comes from the Florida Keys. They're smaller and have a thinner skin than other limes, and are known for their distinct sweet and bitter balance. Where, I wanted to know, did they source their limes from? Because I didn't want an imposter. This threw the waiters into a bit of confusion, but I finally got my answer from the kitchen. Not Floridian, but a Brazilian variety they thought was close. They promised they did something very unique with their recipe. Two Floridians had tried it thus far: one loved it, one wasn't impressed. They'd like my opinion. (Although not enough to comp me the course!)

So I gave it a go. Stunning appearance, the right flavour profile on the lime ... though calling it key lime pie was quite a stretch. It was more like a lime fondant, with a baked outer layer collapsing to reveal a gooey citrus cream when punctured. The real star of the dish, however, was the topping. Sails of meringue wafer (crunch, again) studded with lime zest formed a roof over a quenelle of mascarpone. Eaten together, you'd swear the chef had subtly integrated white chocolate ... a classic friend of key lime ... but it was only an illusion. In the overall taste stakes, I would have been just as happy with a slice of the classic served up at Lauderdale-by-the-Sea's Aruba Beach Cafe. But as a fine-dining level dessert, it was memorable and delicious.

We didn't see anyone famous that night and, frankly, we didn't need to. The stars were on our plates, and in our glasses. And that was good enough for us.