A tale of 2 Wozzas

From what I've seen of Antony Worrall Thompson - his frequent TV appearances have made him the flag-flyer for that denigrated species, the Celebrity Chef - he comes across as a man of contradictions.

The ugly wee chap as blonde magnet; the conspicuous consumer with a commitment to organic, sympathetically reared meats; the man about town with the country lifestyle. I get the sense that underneath his bumptious, bluff bonhomie, there's insecurity: he seems like an uncomfortable mixture of towering ego and cowering self-esteem. Maybe that's why he's always on the telly, like a five-year-old shouting 'look at me!'.

His restaurants show this split, too. You'd expect them to be called AWT, at the very least. But they're called Notting Grill, and its brand new sibling Kew Grill: all very low-profile, very understated.

But look closer at Kew Grill and you'll find the owner's imprint everywhere. His signature is etched in every piece of cutlery. And I'd be very surprised if the decor wasn't Wozza's work: it comes across as an extension to the home kitchen he so happily brandished to the TV cameras - magnificently twee, a city-dweller's idea of a bucolic lifestyle; all bespoke, pastel food preparation islands and bunches of stuff hanging from ceilings.

Here, it's translated as yards of banquette (too high, I felt as though I were interviewing my 6ft 2in date) over-crammed with cushions, rustic woods, rough brick walls and irritating design conceits like the bottles and glasses seemingly melted into the window. Oh, and bunches of stuff hanging from the ceiling.

But on a spring-like April Sunday lunchtime after a jangly Saturday night, it seemed like a brilliant place to be. Well-upholstered, comfortable and smug, much like its middleaged clientele. Read the menu and here come the old confused messages again. On the one hand, there's classic fish pie with buttered peas, or sausages, mash and onion gravy; on the other, crab timbale with mango and paw paw or scallops with crËme fra"che, guacamole and chilli jelly. Say what?

So we did a bit of ordering from both sides of the menu's personality, the prosaic and the poncey. I had misread those scallops. It was 'scallop', singular, at a cheeky £7.90. And this solitary specimen was done few favours by the bullying clamour of its accompaniments: avocado, sour cream and super-sweet jelly, all suffocating the subtle flavour with cloying richness. A smoked chicken salad with mango was a character-free dish, like something served by one of our fellow diners before a nice rubber of bridge.

From our main courses - both terrific - it would seem that the butch, earthy side of Woz is the one to trust. A massive Barnsley chop - a double lamb chop cut across the saddle - was a thing of beauty: rare meat in both senses of the word. And a hamburger made from ten ounces of 28-day hung Castle Brae beef (Thompson's Grill motto is 'Well bred, well fed, well hung') was a complete corker, thick, medium-rare, juices oozing out.

It came with some fiery home-made tomato ketchup and mayo, and some absolutely glorious - crispy, golden, fluffy - chips.

But it would seem that my search for the great restaurant crumble wasn't to end here.

Our stodgy version had the unmistakable incendiary heat of the microwave and the texture of grouting. Good custard, though.