A meal of two halves at Ebury

Our meal could be described as a dinner of two halves - my date's was divine, mine was diabolical. It was like the output of two entirely different chefs, one a seasoned professional, one at the threshold of an undistinguished career.

I've also rarely left an evening so disgruntled, having been forced to watch my date shovel down delicious, springy little fishcakes in piquant peanut and sweet chilli sauces, followed by a splendid fillet of properly hung beef, crusty from the chargrill outside, meltingly, velvety pink within, anointed with a perfect, buttery Bearnaise.

It's bad enough when you think you could have made a better choice; in this case I doubt I could have made worse ones. My salad of jerk chicken and mango was disastrous: what appeared to be bagged supermarket leaves - including the foul, frilly lollo rosso - swamped a few scrawny pieces of greasy, brownish, chicken with little evidence of the promised spicing, the whole sorry selection sitting on top of an oil-slicked poppadom. Oh, the mango was OK.

Smoked haddock chowder was worse. What could've been great comfort food was salted into oblivion, featured scant pieces of fish, undercooked potato and, thanks to the addition of diced carrot, resembled what Barry Humphries used to empty into airplane sickbags as a tasteless joke.

The Belgravian clientele didn't seem to mind, the place was packed. Unless I get the best side of the chef's split personality, they're welcome to it.

Ebury Wine Bar
Ebury Street, London, SW1W 9QU