by Robert Hardman

IF awards were dished out for social climbing, then Notting Hill's All Saints Road would be up there with Ivana Trump and Lady Docker as one of the all-time greats. It is not just a run-down area made good, like much of Notting Hill. In the space of a decade it has gone from violent no-go zone to ultra chic — a Beauchamp Place for the younger crowd.

From the late Sixties until recently, it was to drugs what Hatton Garden is to diamonds. For years the police simply avoided it, preferring to keep Notting Hill's narcotics trade bottled up in one street. By the early Nineties, though, they had started to lean on the worst elements, making All Saints navigable by car, albeit with windows closed and doors locked. In 1997 the cops had a change of strategy and went in hard. Almost overnight the pimps and crack dealers were rounded up and All Saints Road was viable on foot.

Little West Indian shops soon turned into cutting-edge restaurants (which might stick a goat dish on the menu as a rather patronising nod to the old order). The new Notting Hill crowd flocked in, enjoying the frisson of danger while safe in the knowledge that the Mere was not going to be trashed. Today there is the odd dinky shop charging Knightsbridge prices for the latest in plastic hairclips, and no shortage of places to sit and pretend you haven't noticed the celebrity at the next table.

The latest chichi offering, Manor, sits on what used to be the street's most notorious spot. In 1968 it opened as the Mangrove Centre for the local Afro-Caribbean community. By the Eighties it had become a narcotics superstore. In the Nineties it became the noisily hip Mas Café, but the queues for the loos suggested that it had not entirely shaken off its past. Noticing the ever upward social landscape around them, the Mass owners decided that it was time to put more of an emphasis on stylish dining. The result is a place with spotless, empty loos and a wine list offering Chateau Mouton Rothschild premier cru at £200 a time.

Manor may sound like an odd name for a restaurant specialising in southern European grub but, with its dual toff-and-tough connotations, it is actually rather apt. This area is heaving with trust-funded idlers trying to be common, City fund managers trying to be cool, and media loudmouths who pride themselves on being both. They might use the word 'manor' in the gangland sense — 'this used to be a rough manor', etc. — but the chances are that many of them will be heading off to a real manor come the weekend. When I visited last Friday night, the crowd was a predictable mix of bohemian and dress-down corporate.

The menu is predominantly Iberian — Spanish charcuterie, strong Portuguese fish dishes, etc. — with plenty of French and Italian wines outnumbering a selection of Navarras and Riojas. Weekend brunch, on the other hand, is shamelessly American. And it is all put together by a Kiwi, Adam van Schravendyk, formerly of Alastair Little, who came to London by way of the culinary melting-pot that is Melbourne.

Victoria, a keen fig fan, went for the fig salad with artichokes, and gave her figs top marks for juiciness. I went for the squid and clams with chilli, garlic and parsley — a decent-sized bowl of fresh, non-Goodyear squid with enough powerful flavours to ensure that anyone eating it should be given a wide berth for several hours afterwards.

After a week of soggy sandwiches on the election trail, I was in the mood for a pigout, and the roast rib of veal with borlotti beans did not disappoint. It was a huge, inch-thick slab of slightly underdone calf on the bone. In the bad old days you could have fought your way down to Westbourne Park Road with that.

Victoria chose the hake wrapped in pancetta with grilled leeks, and liked the dryness of the pancetta against the tenderness of the hake. It was certainly not low on strong flavours either, and by the time we had chucked in a side order of spicy new potatoes for good measure, our taste buds were in a state of concussion. Having decided to celebrate the onset of summer with a bottle of Château d'Oupia rosé, we could barely taste the stuff.

We rounded all this off with what was probably the best dish of the lot, a soothing and delightfully structured date tart with yogurt. Looking around the place, I sensed that its puddings are more of a forte than an afterthought.

The prices are nothing unusual Londonwise — £6 starters, £15 mains — and the service was impressive from beginning to end. As we dithered at the start, the waiter did a couple of sorties with his pad before suggesting that we just waved at him when we had made up our minds — a much wiser tactic than standing by the table, tapping the pen, glancing at the watch and making bored exhaling noises.

It is not just the food and the ease of looaccess that have changed since Mas Cafel days. The noise level has plummeted to a hum of unobtrusive music (Indian during our visit). That and a sensible spacing of tables means that you can hear yourselves speak, while there is enough ambient noise to thwart adjacent eavesdroppers (this may be a pain, of course, if you are trying to tune into the celeb at the next table).

The decor is studiously mellow with low lighting and a mauvish colour scheme (or at least that is what it looked like under the low lighting). Not being a bar person — rule number one when eating out: spare me the 'aperitif' — I did not try it out, but I am told that its cocktails are good and that it is a respectably cool rendezvous spot.

The calibre of celebrity has changed a bit since the Mas days, too. Back then, it was models, disc jockeys and the naughtier sort of soap star. Since the reincarnation as Manor, it has pulled in a more sober crowd — Lulu and the former Duran Duran singer Simon Le Bon, plus an openingnight appearance from the former motorcyclist Barry Sheen.

This must be a source of worry for the Notting Hill in-crowd. Whatever next? Christopher Biggins? Anthea Turner? But it is, surely, indicative of the new-found respectability of this 'manor'. And the management are not taking any chances with the licence. As midnight struck and a few old Mas Café types staggered in searching for an after-hours drink, the management ushered them straight back into the street within seconds.

Perish the thought, but is it possible that, after all those years of youthful delinquency, All Saints Road might now be turning middle-aged?

Manor, 6-8 All Saints Road, London W11. Tel: 020 7243 6363. Dinner, Monday to Saturday; brunch (10.30 a.m.-5 p.m.), Saturday and Sunday.

Robert Hardman is a writer and columnist for the Daily Mail.