Robert Fisk: No more bottles of Lebanese red for the diners of Baghdad

So you can imagine my driver Mohamed's face when I suggested yesterday that we go out to lunch at the Ramaya restaurant, close to the waterfront, several miles from my hotel, guarded by absolutely nobody. He laughed. Then he put his hand in front of his face. Then he said: "Why not?"

I said we should make it a 15-minute lunch. My Iraqi fixer Omar smiled but remained silent. "Two o'clock," Mohamed said. "There should be other Iraqis eating then." He was right. We drove at 120 kilometres an hour through the streets, raced to the corner where the restaurant stood, and there were at least seven Mercedes and 4x4s in the driveway. Mohamed and Omar climbed out first, checked the entrance, came back and gave me a thumbs up.

But the moment I walked to the restaurant, I realised something had changed. It was no longer the Ramaya - an Iraqi family name - but the Zamam al-Kheir, which means "Time of Goodwill". A very Islamic name, one might add, and the neon sign above the entrance was coloured green.

The waiters were the same. One recognised me. The other guests were - of course - all Iraqis, mostly rich. Then came the menu, brand new but without translation. The international version at the Ramaya came in English, French and Arabic. The "Zamam al-Kheir's" clientele would have to speak Arabic if they wanted to order their food.

I ordered houmus, tabouleh, mutabal, vegetarian pizzas. Mohamed and Omar set about the meal with more gusto than me. "Don't worry, Mr Robert," Mohamed assured me. "The waiters say there has been no trouble here." And no foreigners either, I'd wager.

The old Ramaya, it turned out, had been bought by a Shia Muslim family who, true to their faith, now maintained a strictly Islamic café. No more bottles of Lebanese red for Robert of Arabia. Lunch was washed down with a bottle of Kuwaiti mineral water and fresh orange juice - which was fresh but more like pulp so I had to spoon the stuff from the glass.

The main course turned out to be the only meat-filled vegetarian pizza in the world. All this, of course, while turning frequently to glance at the door.

About halfway through the meal, it opened noisily and 12 young but paunchy Iraqi men marched in, three of them with pistols pushed into the top of their trousers. Mohamed's eyes narrowed. I looked at him. He stood up, went over to our waiter and talked earnestly into his ear. Then he returned with a broad smile. "You're in luck, Mr Robert. These are Iraqi businessmen working for the Americans. They come armed because they are more frightened than you. No one will get past them today because they would open fire." I wasn't sure I wanted to be in the centre of this shooting match.

So there was much wolfing of food and demands for the bill. Fifty degrees of heat met us in the car park and Mohamed knelt below our car to see if he could check for those horrible wires for which every wise motorist searches before driving home. There were none, of course, just the searing heat and a breathtaking journey back along the Tigris to the hotel. The 15-minute meal had become the 45-minute meal. But we had done it. We had lunched out in Baghdad, discovered the Islamicisation of my favourite restaurant and eaten the world's first all-meat vegetarian pizza. I'm sure Mr Bush and Lord Blair of Kut al-Amara would claim this as proof of another victory for the "new" Iraq.