I am lazy and nosy, and so I spend a lot of time on the GWR service from Penzance to London Paddington. Each journey is a play with a unique atmosphere. Some are seething, particularly in summer when an eight-carriage train cannot fit everyone who wants to swim in the ocean but dine in west London that same night. Some are non-committal; some restful. I rage at usual things: luggage in the disabled space, which is almost always occupied by the non-disabled, though they may be fat; videos played without headphones; young people swearing at older people because they grapple with a rage they cannot understand. You can measure the social contract on any long train journey, and I have. It’s broken.

A restaurant on wheels has the potential for jeopardy, and therefore excitement

But there is always consolation if you have money. I didn’t know there is a restaurant car on the GWR service from Penzance to London Paddington. It is called Pullman Dining. I thought common train dining went the way of train windows that opened, which had to be abolished when someone stuck their head out and was hit by a branch, because stupidity is infinite. I used to like the bar car, which served floppy bacon sandwiches and gin and tonics at 11 a.m. but it was replaced by a trolley service, manned by charming people. It is the Flying Dutchman of snacks, appearing once every seven years with a Wispa and a sigh. It is semi-mythical, and I do not trust it.

But on Friday we explored the 3.15 p.m., and learnt that, like Cinderella at the ball, a small green and grey first-class carriage had transformed itself into a dining car with paper tablecloths and fine tableware. If you have a first-class ticket you can reserve a table: otherwise you must throw yourself on the mercy of the train manager. I don’t care for first class since they abolished the oversized leather seats. They were soothing because they were made for libertines and monsters: for Logan Roy. I have stowed away in the new first class since – if you say you support the strike action, they might let you sit there – and I am always cold. The grandeur has gone: you are only paying for the absence of other people. Nor have I ever had a good meal on a train. The beef on the Orient Express was overcooked and, though the scrambled eggs on the British Pullman were adequate, nothing compensated for the way commuters looked at you from their platforms in outer London.

Still, a restaurant on wheels has the potential for jeopardy, and therefore excitement. Sometimes it is in Devon, sometimes in the Somerset Levels, sometimes in sullen Reading. We walk into the first-class carriage disguised as a restaurant and are instantly cocooned in affection. I am spending a lot of time monitoring the Cornish Palestine Solidarity Campaign Facebook page, and I need it.

The beef fillet is superb, bloodier than I asked for, and the better for it. The effect is slightly ruined by the fact that the dauphinoise potatoes are undercooked and taste of mud. The sage-stuffed chicken with hispi cabbage is fine, as is the pannacotta with poached rhubarb: the cheeses are too cold, and the bright orange one tastes of soap. The view, meanwhile, is only of our own reflections. Even so I recommend it, at £33.50 for two courses, or £39.50 for three. The replacement of the bar car with mythical trolley service and surprise fine dining is a metaphor for political polarisation, of course. But for me it’s a novelty, and a transient one. Look around for worse.