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The setting is superb, the menu extensive, and the service charmingly conscientious. It is only the padlocks, the uniforms, and the waiters' tattoos that give the game away.

Welcome to set cosily inside the perimeter of one of South Africa's most notorious jails.

"A five-star hotel", was how Nelson Mandela described Pollsmoor, in contrast to the barren hardships of nearby Robben Island when he arrived here in 1982. "The food... was far superior... like a feast," he wrote in his autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom.

The prison is nestled in something close to a cliche of pastoral charm, a short drive south of Cape Town. Vineyards in front. Table Mountain round the corner. Pillowy clouds shouldering through the gaps in a crescent of steep hillsides.

High walls denied Mandela any opportunity to enjoy the views. "A modern face but a primitive heart," he wrote of his "world of concrete". But he was permitted to construct his own patch of nature - a garden, providing "onions, aubergines, cabbage, cauliflower, beans, spinach, carrots, cucumbers, broccoli, beetroot, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, strawberries and much more", to the prison kitchen and to the warders.

Today, we drive though the main gates with barely a glance from the guards - and no reservation. "We're here for lunch," we declare - and are casually directed past the wire fences of the low-security block and over to the warder's recreation centre.

Our waiter, Jodi, is a thin young man with a shaved head, quick smile, and the slightly stooped walk of someone expecting to be clipped round the ear at any moment. The restaurant is busy. Lots of decidedly plump prison wardens, and plenty of civilians. The place has been open to the public for many years now - part of a rehabilitation - and caters for weddings and other functions.

Gang tattoos

"We get to work here when our sentence is nearly finished," says Jodi, after taking our orders. He's doing two years for stealing a motorbike. It's not his first time inside, "but it's going to be my last". It was during his six years here that Nelson Mandela was finally allowed physical contact with his family - "it had been 21 years since I had even touched my wife's hand."

At our table, Lele - a tour guide from a local township - whispers that the extensive tattoos that disappear under Jodi's sleeves mark him out as a member of the notorious "I got them done in here," says Jodi, sounding a little sheepish.

Notorious for housing Mandela, Walter Sisulu, Ahmed Kathrada and other struggle heroes, Pollsmoor may soon have a different, though hardly equal, claim to fame.

If - and there are a lot of ifs - Shrien Dewani is extradited to South Africa to face charges that he murdered his wife a few miles down the road from the prison while on honeymoon last November, and if he is denied bail when he gets here, there's a possibility that he might spend some time at Pollsmoor during his trial. If he's found guilty, then Pollsmoor is one of several prisons in the area to which he might be sent.

Over the coming months we're likely to hear plenty of arguments about the state of South African justice, and conditions in its prisons, if - as expected - Mr Dewani and his lawyers continue to contest his extradition from Britain.

I'll focus on the issue of justice in a future blog. As for prison conditions: "It's ok here," says Jodi, quietly, as he brings our main courses. In fact I've heard the broadest range of opinions on this subject over the past days and months: local defence lawyers scoffing at the idea that the issue is even relevant, and insisting Dewani "will get special treatment - the guards will treat him like a celebrity"; a campaigner warning of "widespread torture", in South African jails; an ex-con, gang member and former get-away expert, who told me anyone with money could bribe the guards and live a life of luxury - although they'd still have to be careful "after the guards leave, and the doors close for the night".

We tuck into our lunch. Steak, chicken salad, fish and chips. No evidence of any fresh prison vegetables "a la Mandela". My deep fried fish manages to be both soggy and tough. A prison guard walks past, swinging a set of keys on a long string. I ask if I can take a picture with our waiter. He shakes his head: "No. Security."

A memorable lunch. But not quite five star.

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