I still have no kitchen, and am struggling hard not to write about it again for fear of blighting this column with bourgeois self-absorption and repetitiveness. But it’s tricky. For you, it’s only a weekly restaurant review that the builders are spoiling. For me, it is life itself.

You can flick over the page now and go straight to Gordon’s recipes. You can thrill to his pellucid prose and, hell, maybe even cook up a recipe for lunch. You can do this because you HAVE A KITCHEN. I, of course, do not. Still do not. Perhaps never will. And so am forced to take all my sustenance out of doors.

So, here’s fun, I’m going to review yesterday’s breakfast, lunch and dinner. So you can see what it’s like. Get a sense of how the kitchenless live. And also because my receipts are beginning to pile up something rotten, and I just can’t write fast enough to give every meal its own 1,200 words.

So let us begin, as one should always begin, with breakfast. Long experience has told me that life is better when you start the day with muesli. It’s got a nice, dull feel in the mouth – one doesn’t want anything too exciting on a morning-fresh palate – and releases its energy treasure slowly, all through the morning, so there need be no panic-loading of carbohydrate at lunch, which leads to afternoon lethargy, tea-time choccy munching, obesity, misery, loneliness, death.

Except that when you’re eating breakfast away from home, it’s not quite so easy. I’ve been finding it hard to load up with the grey, fibrous gut lagging I know I need in places that smell of fried, smoked pig and buttered toast, so I’ve gone native (literally, gone “full English”) and put on, I kid you not, a stone in three weeks.

So I know a thing or two about a cooked breakfast now, and I can tell you honestly that there is not a much better one to be had than you get at Canteen in Baker Street.

I reviewed the first Canteen to open, in Spitalfields, back in 2006, and liked it very much. The concern has since expanded very slowly and thoughtfully, first to the Royal Festival Hall and now to Baker Street (already home to two of London’s best restaurants, Galvin and Royal China Club, and, with its proximity to Marylebone, fast becoming one of London’s best eating streets), to a new development on the site of the old M&S building. This time the space is brighter, more colourful, more fun. They seem to be confident that the message about the fundamental values of old-fashioned British eating has been understood, and can relax a bit.

I had exemplary coffee and juice and then two perfect fried eggs, plump and sweet and viscous, bursting on to a golden, crunching puck of bubble and squeak, with crispy bacon, and a couple of excellent sausages on the side, and through the vast street vitrine watched the swarm of suited losers bustling, unbreakfasted, to work, sucking coffee-flavoured milk drinks from cardboard tubes and listening to the same old crap on the same old iPods through the same old waxy earphones.

And then I strode home across Regent’s Park, wrote these last 544 words, and then it was time for lunch.

I had business in Knightsbridge, had to see a man about a Zip tap, and so took the opportunity to try the newish Brompton Bar and Grill (or, at least, the Grill bit, since I’m not much of a lunchtime barfly these days) on the site of what used to be Brasserie St Quentin, just a few doors down from good old Racine where, praise the Lord, Henry Harris is said to be back in the kitchen (and where I must go soon, perhaps later today).

It was a bright, elegant sort of a room with wooden floors, dark brown leather banquettes and chairs with (hallelujah!) arms, a zinc-topped bar and plenty of natural light. Surprisingly, the place was full of bona fide, old-school Knightsbridge locals: actual English people, on the far side of middle age from me, in grown-up clothes, talking quietly. One doesn’t really expect to encounter Anglophone palefaces in mustard-coloured cords in a Knightsbridge restaurant any more, and I was charmed beyond measure.

Service was on the slow side (but they had an awful lot of carb-dodging ladies to deal with, who seemed unable to order a dish without five or six qualifications, and then always found some small slice of potato or sliver of toast to discreetly wrap in a napkin and ask to have taken away) and the cooking was up and down. Bacon and egg croquettes were four squishy and unambitious fellows, tasty enough, and familiar to anyone who has wolfed finger-food to soak up the sherry at a Spanish feria. Dorset crab on toast was a pile of the currently fashionable brown meat, with its strong, fishy reek, which is okay I guess, but will scare finicky eaters who pay £8.50 expecting the light, bright, pink and white stuff we English so totally prefer.

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