And the verdict is...

It is a curious sensation to be eating in a courtroom, especially for someone with unresolved authority issues: policemen and customs officials still manage to bring me out in a guilty sweat.

When I read that Silk was in the former Great Marlborough Street Magistrates Court, I vaguely expected a refurbishment that gently referenced its past. So to find the main restaurant of the new Courthouse Hotel looking as though the last criminal had just been led off to the cells was a trifle disconcerting.

The windowless room (apart from an imposing glass cupola) is heavily wood-panelled and the raised dais from which the dignitaries issued judgement is intact. This is where Oscar Wilde got sent down; where The Rolling Stones and Profumo were charged. Cowering at our corner table under the onslaught of a particularly solicitous battalion of staff, we found ourselves suffering from a mild dose of The Fear.

The menu is downright tricky. Not only does it come in a huge faux-book from which its ribboned pages have a tendency to flutter floorwards but it roams round the world, apparently following the ancient Silk route through Europe, the Middle East and Asia.

I can just imagine the pleasure the Kempinski Hotel bigwigs get out of this laboured pun - Silks are lawyers, innit? And this is a courtroom. And the Silk route means we don't need to concentrate on one type of cuisine. Genius. Er, no. What this actually means is a menu that lacks clarity, glazes the eye and boggles the mind.

Now, if this sounds overly negative, there is good news.

Head chef Elisha Carter, a young dude who first came to prominence at Lola's in Islington, is brimming with talent.

If some of his dishes don't come off, it is down to over-reaching ambition rather than lack of ability. Weary of trawling through the carte's rambling, we went for the £65-a-head 'Chef's Silk Route' degustation menu, five courses padded out with various pre-starters, pre-desserts and petit fours.

Some of it was bewildering but some of it was brilliant. Parmesan brulée was misconceived: heavy and granular, it was a clunky kick-off to a long meal. But the soup that followed, a fantastically aromatic bisque of red mullet with a cannelloni of firm fish, was thrilling. As was the next course: moist 'Peking' duck, foie gras with Szechwan pepper and two kinds of Chinese-flavoured, salami-type sausage formed into a round mosaic and served with a rèmoulade of mooli, some silky pear purée and a gorgeously spiced aubergine chutney.

A fried, breaded parcel came with some excellent roast hake (next big thing, I promise you). It split to reveal a vivid green stuffing flecked with white cubes. What this was, I have no idea. Tofu persillée? Whatever, it had no business in a dish that already featured a crust of Serrano and Pecorino (why?), frogs' legs, baby onions (so vinegary, I'd swear they had just limped out of their jar), capers and raisins.

A ravishing chocolate and peanut fondant was ruined by apricots that tasted as though they had been marinated in Calpol.