All rather run-of-the-mill

This review was published in April 2002

There's a cynicism about a certain kind of Italian restaurant: not local trats nor the high-falutin' sort, rather those covering up the same old same old with a veneer of gloss and sophistication.

Carpaccio would seem to fall into this undistinguished category. Despite its cool and airy townhouse appearance, tables were rammed together - intimate knowledge of neighbours is unavoidable.

We had an early booking and, when we arrived, an encouragingly large battalion of chefs was still at dinner. They, our waiters and our garrulous maitre d' were all immensely friendly; OK, then, far too bleeding familiar if I'm to be snootily honest. Order-taking is of the 'push the turbot' school, subtly and insidiously steering you away from what you really want, which is how we came to be eating the specials of the day including, as you'd imagine, the punted turbot.

Starters were passable: duck and blackberry ravioli in a 'light butter sauce' - aka melted butter - with no discernible taste of fruit; asparagus was fat and bland. Main courses were lamentable: the much-vaunted turbot looked like a defrosted square of supermarket hoki and, with its wooliness and strident fishiness, didn't taste much better.

Three large, tired prawns were draped over 'wild' rice - a ringer for Uncle Ben's long grain and wild ready mix - and were tasteless (little sign of the promised chilli) and rather worryingly furry in texture.

As we paid our bill - not far off £100 - we were offered a complimentary liqueur. Too little, too late, I'm afraid.

Carpaccio
Sydney Street, London, SW3 6PP