A floored genius

I came over all Michael Winner-ish I was so aggrieved at the loss of that Chiswick landmark, Fouberts. With its pistachio exterior and myriad ice cream flavours, it was, I reckoned, the sort of place that should have a preservation order slapped on it. Not that I ever actually went there, you understand.

My aggravation was increased when it turned out that the new owner was Nick Jones, that slickest, most media-savvy of restaurateurs. You know the one: husband of TV's Kirsty Young; owner of the Electric Brasserie (shudder!); Babington House (been on the telly? Have your wedding here!); and oh-so-smooth Cecconi's. Not to mention his members-only clubs both here and in New York, where he's taken the town by storm.

So I prepared my most cat's-arse of faces and hied off to sock it to 'em. After only days of opening, the restaurant was mobbed, meaning that we could only sit at "the chef's table", a communal bench right beside the open kitchen where we were deafened by shouts of "service! SERVICE!" and kippered by our neighbours' fag smoke. We settled in for a right evisceration.

But then things started going horribly right. First up, there's no doubt that Jones is an inspired operator: sure, he nicks things left right and centre (most obviously from that other notable Brit-in-NY, Keith McNally, the visionary behind the Apple's ever-buzzing Balthazar), but he knows how to adapt them to his target audience.

So we get a play on the classic brasserie, deliciously twisted by long-time design collaborator Ilse Crawford. She has combined tradition and quirkiness in her typically insouciant way to deliver a really gorgeous place to spend breakfast, lunch, dinner - or simply while away the afternoon over a kir and complimentary newspaper. She has also put in a tiled floor of such curious beauty that it had me gasping with jealousy.

Jones's menus are always works of genius - a collection of fairly simple things you really, really want to eat made from good ingredients - and here is no different. I defy anyone to peruse this one without finding a fistful of dishes you can't wait to get down your neck: grills, seafood, sandwiches, a bunch of slightly more evolved choices such as pea and pecorino risotto, or mutton chops with parsley and caper sauce.

From crumpets with Nutella at breakfast to ribsteak at dinner, it is all-encompassing, reasonably priced, accessible - if a place attached to a private members club can be described as democratic, then High Road Brasserie is just that.

Anyway, as is also the case with Jones's other establishments, we ate well, but not brilliantly. He and his team are great at detail: freshly squeezed juices - even pineapple - arrived in cute little old-fashioned bottles; sweet, pungently garlicky moules marinière were served up in a lidded, cast-iron casserole; the bread that came with my rather fabulous suckling pig sandwich - squidgy meat, crisp crackling, Bramley apple sauce, a little jug of intense gravy, with a trademark tin of rustling, salty frites - was kissed with the liquorice touch of caraway or fennel.

There were hiccups, however: an improperly cleaned half-lobster; gratingly undercooked 'chips' (Jenga-stacked pommes pont neuf) that came with a similarly too-raw smoked haddock with hollandaise.

'Crispy' squid was impossible to chew and its Findus-ey coating slid off it like a greased welly-boot. But this is such a pleasant place to be - and staff are so lovely - we found ourselves not minding that much.