An Italian masterpiece

We didn't have a booking for Iniga: something that usually throws me into a panic. When we walked down the stairs to the glitteringly appointed basement, we were faced with a heaving crowd of wealthy Chelsea-ites of a certain age; my heart sank. But instead of sniffiness - the usual 'have you got a reservation' elitism - we were shown nothing but charm.

The bar was rammed with sexagenarian chaps brandishing ill-advised hair-don'ts and women who looked like recently exhumed Joanna Lumleys, all in a state of posh, frisky inebriation. This bunch, however, turned out to be a private party (for what I don't know. Superannuated male pony-tail owners? Ex-shags of Jeffrey Archer?).

The real punters in the restaurant were a whole other ball game: young, impossibly gorgeous, dressed in that glitzy Italian style that just teeters on the edge of trashy. Eye candy heaven, and enough to make a goddess feel old, fat and frumpy - just as Italy does. Still: no denying the truly authentic Italian vibe.

Perhaps the clientele is down to partner Marcello Santese. Not only does he come across as a textbook Latin Lover - all toothy charm and too-sharp shmutter - but his previous gig was as general manager of Daphne's, spiritual home to the gilded and minted of this manor.

They seem to have happily followed him here. Earwigging on some of our neighbours, I began to wonder if the genuinely terrific food on offer might end up as pearls before swine.

'Is this straight from the aisles of Tesco?' asked a chisel-jawed youth about a gloriously cushiony ball of sweetly lactating, finest buffalo mozzarella. I've never seen a back radiating so much suppressed anger as our waiter's, as he calmly recounted the cheese's daily journey from its artisanal Italian producers. Ten out of ten for the staff: I would have been moved to smack the little smartarse.

We appreciated it, though; head chef Claudio Deli delivers modern Italian cooking like you find in big Italian cities (although, inspiration-wise, it wanders blithely from Sardinia to Milan). There is a strong sense of the traditional (vitello tonnato, linguine con vongole), some interesting twists (chargrilled scallops with crispy pancetta and carrot sauce) and a love of presentation: even a mixed salad featured skinned tomatoes arranged in perfect concentric flourishes.

Big, tender prawns came with 'fecola' - or fregola, that teeny lead shot-shaped Sardinian pasta - and a suggestion of tomato and basil. Thick, home-made pappardelle were unctuous with pumpkin, the richness of (unbilled) saffron and rather overpowering delicate rings of squid.

We liked tender slices of duck breast with a stickily reduced red wine sauce and a smooth purèe of potatoes, glossy with good olive oil. But the stellar dish was, without a doubt, delicate parcels of venison: the pasta stained chocolate brown with cocoa, the meat sweet and gamey. These so-modern ravioli were topped simply with melted butter and crisply fried sage: luxurious, surprising, accomplished.

Bread and puddings - often the also-rans in Italian establishments - were first class, especially a sinfully squidgey hot chocolate cake.