Aaya feels more Paris than London

In France, when you stub your toe or receive any unwelcome knock to your person, exclaim 'aaya' at the top of your voice and everyone will know exactly what you mean. It's their version of 'ouch!' (Using it will make you sound seriously fluent and can be recommended next time you stand on something sharp on a St Tropez beach.)

The word aaya also means 'beautiful flower' in Japanese and happens to be the name of the restaurant where I was meeting the romantic novelist for lunch to celebrate the completion of her new book. I confess to viewing the trip with more than a little trepidation. The last time I ate Japanese I had to unexpectedly take my shoes off and sit on the floor. Horrific. Plus, I was fawned over by waitresses who made me feel as if I was starring in an Eastern version of The Stepford Wives. And even though the hedonist in me embraced such geishalike treatment, it also made me feel slightly uncomfortable. I've always seen women as equals, never as subservient - my mother made sure of that.

Aaya is situated in Brewer Street, which must be the scuzziest street in Soho. Full of fading façades, peeling paint and the most garish neon, it made the huge yet discreet doors of the restaurant seem as if they had been put there by mistake. Like a shortseller on his knees in church, begging forgiveness.

The room has a faint Thirties feel to it. Ridged glass wall panels framed with vertical lines of twinkling little lights make you imagine the late Busby Berkeley finding some kind of inspiration for his wonderful movies here. A low-lit staircase leading to the sushi bar downstairs was just crying out for a line of dancing women with jewelled and feathered plumes in their hair. Traditional touches include dark pots of cerise orchids in the windows, though an idiosyncratic effect is created by what looks like chicken wire surrounding the muted wall lights.

Despite my qualms and even though I'd taken the precaution of donning new socks, I was not asked to remove anything nor sit on anything more challenging than a banquette at the table where my guest awaited. She was excited about the chairs: sleek and black-leathered, but with a racy slash of scarlet just visible beneath. They reminded her of Christian Louboutin shoes.

A waiter glided over to take our drinks order, wearing a wide, heavy white garment that looked a bit like a skirt. Was it a skirt, we wondered? He did a sort of lunge to reveal that it was, in fact, a pair of trousers. My friend wore exactly the same. That's equality, I guess.

The à la carte menu was mouthwatering, but we decided to try the £11 lunch menu. These are belttightening times and yet so often set menus fail to deliver, giving you food that tastes like leftovers.

Not here. First we were brought delicate doll-size dishes of Japanese pickles. With one chopstick, the novelist poked at hers the way you sometimes do with a wasp to check it's dead. She was surprised at how delicious they tasted, while I hoovered up the dark little pile of seaweed shavings and wished there were more.

Next came miso soup. The broth had a slight kick to it and was swimming with vegetables and cubes of tofu, which tasted yummy. This was followed by bowls heaped high, mine with chicken teriyaki and my guest's with tempura. Both were good, but the tempura was extraordinarily moreish and featured those giant, juicy prawns that usually cost more than an American bail-out package.

The pudding menu struck an unconventional note, but clearly this has been included to appeal to the West. We opted to share chocolate and banana torte with banana ice cream; neither of us could ever remember eating banana ice cream before. It was again faultless, and included a sticky swirl of what tasted like toffee. Our only quibble was with the coffee, which arrived lukewarm, but apart from this, we were hooked. Everyone should eat here.