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It's ironic that the most fashionable gastro pub in Primrose Hill is called the Engineer. After all, this is an area known for its artists, writers and actors, not it's bridge-builders and industrial designers. Indeed, the Engineer is only a stone's throw from Chalcot Square, home to Jonathan Miller, Joan Bakewell and Alan Bennett. At Oxford and Cambridge, where they all went to university, those studying engineering were looked down upon by literary intellectuals, a state of affairs that led CP Snow to make his famous complaint about Britain's "two cultures". It's the equivalent of a pub in Redmond, Washington--home of Microsoft's global headquarters--calling itself "the Poet".

Interestingly, the arty-farty types who live in the area are now divided into two warring factions themselves. In most London boroughs, social upheaval is triggered by "gentrification", but in this case it's "de-gentrification" that's the problem. The Oxbridge-educated residents of Chalcot Square are up in arms about the influx of ghastly, cash-rich celebrities like Sadie Frost and Liam Gallagher who have turned their beloved patch of London into a tabloid stalking ground. The long-term residents want to preserve the atmosphere of slightly shabby gentility, whereas the new arrivals are intent on turning it into a London outpost of the Hollywood Hills. The fact that the wife-swapping celebs are a great deal richer than the local artists and intellectuals makes their presence in the area that much harder to take.

In this civil war, the Engineer occupies a rather delicate position. On the one hand, it's been serving goats cheese salad and lamb moussaka since 1995, so its "gastro" credentials were established long before the arrival of the rich and shameless. But on the other, it's a firm favourite of the area's tabloid pin-ups. Indeed, there have been many a Sunday afternoon when the pub's staff have had to be extra-careful about not seating Jude Law and Sienna Miller too close to Sadie Frost and Jackson Scott. Now, presumably, they'll have a fifth person to worry about because Daisy Wright, Sadie's "weekend nanny", is reportedly a regular as well. A better name for the pub might be "the Paparazzo".

I went there for a late lunch on a Wednesday afternoon with Tamara Harvey, the director of the satirical farce I've just co-written about the Kimberly-Blunkett affair. I arrived on my bicycle and when I asked the barman where I should park he suggested the garden. On a normal weekday afternoon, this al fresco dining area would be heaving with yummy mummies, but since it was pouring with rain it was deserted. Indeed, virtually the only other customers in the pub were three bluff Yorkshiremen propping up the bar. As far as I could tell, Tamara and I were the only ones eating.

The website describes the food as "modern British with more than a hint of Pacific Rim" and, while that's perfectly accurate, it could equally well describe every gastro pub in North London. I started with grilled quail on a bed of almonds, grapes and potato chips and followed up with baked salmon fillet, while Tamara had goats cheese, red pepper and potato roulade, then, for her main course, peppers stuffed with sweet potato. I thought mine was just about okay--all gastro pub food tastes as if it's been mass-produced in some central location and then shipped out on Domino's-style scooters--but Tamara complained that her food contained "too many flavours", which was slightly odd given that both her starter and her main course were virtually identical. All in all, it was undistinguished, perfectly adequate fare, the gastro pub equivalent of a ploughman's lunch.

Intriguingly, for those with an interest in good food there's a gastro deli opposite that's the real McCoy. Called Melrose & Morgan, it sells a range of expensive food products, from Hampstead Heath honey to blackberry yoghurts bearing High Fearnley-Whittingstall's River Cottage logo. The staff includes exiles from St John and the River Café and, every day, Melorse & Morgan offers a wide choice of pre-cooked gourmet meals. Next time I'm in Primrose Hill, provided the sun is shining, I'm going to buy my lunch here and have a picnic on one of the benches overlooking the canal. Unless I spot the corpse of Jude Law bearing Sienna Miller's claw marks floating past, at least I'll be able to avoid the local celebs.