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.

Remarkable Roscioli wine tasting is a must for any Roman visit

If you're a wine lover, there's one name you need in Rome: Alessandro Pepe.

Alessandro is the sommelier for Roscioli, a family-run collection of restaurant, bakery, deli and wine-tasting facility in the winding streets near the Campo de Fiori. His knowledge of Italian wines is, unsurprisingly, encyclopedic ... but he's well versed on the rest of the world's offerings. Combine this with stereotypically Italian passion and enthusiasm, a fantastic sense of humour and completely fluent English and you get one of the most informative and entertaining wine tastings I've ever attended. With Alessandro's assurance that he regularly switches out his wines, this is the activity I'd put on the top of my list for a return trip to Rome.

Roscioli's comprehensive tasting is aligned with food matching; you're not just sampling wines here, but dining on a series of small plates that show off some Italian classics and provide the foundation on which Alessandro builds his bottle selection.  At 70 euro per person for a minimum of eight wines (we ended up tasting 10) and a long progression of nibbles that adds up to a substantial meal, this would have been good value for money even without the enlightened commentary. There's also the delight of the company. The tasting takes place around a large, high table that accommodates up to 12. You all love wine and food, or you wouldn't be there, and that's inevitably the start of good conversations. By the evening's mid-point, it felt more like a dinner party of friends than a table of strangers. That's a feeling encouraged by Alessandro, who's great at drawing all of the guests into the conversation. At the end of the evening, you're all left to help yourself to anything left in bottles (there was plenty) and it becomes a proper party.

My wine revelations from the evening? Unsurprisingly, my love affair with the Sicilians continues. The sparkling wine that started the evening (Terzavia, Marco de Bartoli) was made from grillo grapes and gave off a heady whiff of apricot. It comes from the same region that produces Marsala, a product almost exclusively made for the Anglo-Saxon market. The Italians cleverly keep the sparkling grillo for themselves. Two courses later, as we tried Sicilian reds from Etna and Noto, I was delighted to realise that my trip tasting 'round the volcano meant I could identify the distinctive taste of the area. You get the woody, chocolate and liquorice tones of a heavy red wine, pulled to lightness by the minerality that the vines suck out of the volcanic soil. Served with a taste of red tuna preserved in peppery olive oil, and sweet-and-sour caponata, the combination demonstrated how wine is almost as good as travel. A bite, a sip, close eyes ... and I'm back on the balcony in Taormina.

Alessandro's enthusiastic championing of the Barolo region, plus tastes of Sobrero's Ciabot Tanasio 2011 and Palladino's Ornato 2010, have me thinking this should be the location of our next girls' tasting trip. A small region, passionate about quality, restricting space and resisting the temptation to incorporate lesser quality fields into their DOCG, this bit of Northeastern Italy between Genoa and Turin mirrors the quality and tradition of Burgundy. The wines are dark and fruity, yet with enough earthy, woody tones to bring an interesting complexity.

The standout of the night for me, however, was my old, hard-to-find friend, schioppettino. I've loved this grape variety since being introduced to it many years ago by the manager of Venice's Enoteca al Volto (that city's best wine bar, IMHO), and have jumped at it whenever it's on a restaurant wine list. It's a choice that will always surprise and impress sommeliers, since it'a a tiny-production secret few have been let into. The standard description of schioppetino, which means "little gunshot", is a medium-bodied, Rhone-like wine with a dark colour and notes of violet, raspberry and pepper. The Bressan 2008 lived up to expectations, my only disappointment being that the spicy sausage we tasted with it was too bold for its subtle sophistication. This is a wine that deserves an equally special food; perfection with stuffed rabbit loin or grouse. But that's far beyond the complexity of the food you'll enjoy at Riscoli.

That's not to criticise it; simply to acknowledge that when you're getting a series of small plates at a moderate price, you shouldn't expect elaborate main courses. The menu is mostly cheeses and cured meats, true to Roscioli's origins as a salumeria. If you think Italy is summed up in prosciutto di parma, mozzarella and grating-quality parmesan, come here to have your eyes opened. The most unique of the tastes that evening was the burrata.

The majority of Italian meats and cheeses travel well, and if you have a good Italian store (like The Italian Shop in Maidenhead, England, or Viviano's in St. Louis, USA) you can get your hands on most things. But burrata is supposed to be consumed within 24 hours of its creation, and is considered past its prime at 48 ... so is not easy to find. It's been a trendy feature of high end menus in London for the past year or two, but I've never eaten it as fresh as it was at Roscoli. Firm mozzarella on the outside, a core of gooey, buttery cream spilling out when you puncture its sphere, burrata is the cheesy equivalent of a chocolate fondant.

Other cheeses included fresh ricotta served with different orange jams, buffalo mozzarella, cravanzina, a wonderfully pungent pecorino from Monti sabini, a 36-month-old parmigiano regiano only recently cut and therefore still "living" and testun ... a mix of sheep and goat's milk ... wrapped in chestnut leaves. There was proper pesto genovese, four varieties of cured pork and two warm dishes: pasta all'Amatriciana (simple, well-balanced tomatoes and chili) and a traditional Roman meatball. Which seemed remarkably similar to my mother's traditional Sicilian meatball. I didn't confirm if their recipe combined ground beef, pork and veal slow simmered in a pot of tomato sauce for hours, but I wouldn't be surprised.

My only warning about the wine tasting at Roscoli: if you have any allergies or special needs, be very assertive. I'd emailed in advance about my husband's tomato allergy (always a challenge in Italy), while the couple next to us had notified them that he was a vegetarian. The standard menu came to both. Roscioli managed impromptu work-arounds on the tomato front (double pesto, more prosciutto) but the vegetarian had to skip quite a few courses. I suspect multiple and more assertive emails could have sorted that in advance.