A good start spoiled

Just around the corner from Cecconi's is an Italian restaurant of a more modern persuasion. Sartoria is part of the Conran empire, a large corner establishment where the welldressed and well-heeled who frequent London's premier serious clothing boulevard may repair for refreshment.

The lunchtime I arrived, the light poured through the large windows into the bar, almost as if issuing an invitation. From a short list of cocktails, I selected a mojito fresco, the fresco element being supplied by the addition of cucumber.

Whereas I am no fan of the salad-in-a-glass style of cocktail, an exception had to be made in this case, a most refreshing take on an old favourite.

The service, which was excellent from beginning to end, hit the right note immediately by supplying proper, home-made breadsticks, then a bowl of vibrant olive oil and some fine bread.

Having furrowed my brow earnestly over the complexities of a long and Italian wine list, the wine waiter suggested we try a variety of wines by the glass, chosen by him to suit each of our courses. I handed over the responsibility with relief, and was immediately rewarded with a glass of Tuscan white from San Gimiano.

The soups that arrived as starters were perfect in their simplicity. The tomato delivered a tongue-tingling tang, while the minestrone was a most refined version of that catch-all dish.

A nicely structured sauvignon blanc appeared as if by magic, and the omens were profoundly promising. Unfortunately, as is so often the case, the omens were misleading.

The problems began with the intermediate helping of lasagne with baby octopus and cherry tomatoes. I am never keen on eating any sort of baby fish, but these octopi were spectacularly pointless, sadly flavourless miniatures with no redeeming feature other than a textural avoidance of the totally rubbery.

The main courses continued in this disappointing vein, even with the help of a fine Barbaresco Piedmonte, which was the final choice of the excellent sommelier. My veal Milanese lacked flavour even with the help of lavish sprinklings of a giant lemon from Sorrento.

My wife's red mullet, on the other hand, had altogether too much flavour, the normal delicacy of the fish having achieved an almost gamy backtaste.