Anywhere but Ozu

Why anyone would choose to eat at Ozu is beyond me. It's not that it's terrible - there's worse out there waiting to ensnare the unwary diner - but my dinner there left me little other than a large bill and an overwhelming sense of so what, says Marina O'Loughlin.

This upmarket modern Japanese restaurant is situated on the curved, dramatic front of County Hall, with a view over Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Just as well, because the panorama just about deflects your attention from the peculiarity of the space.

Clearly, the owners - like The Saatchi Gallery next door - weren't allowed to tinker too much with the listed wood panelling of this long, oddly shaped room, leaving it with an unfortunate resemblance to an oversized pine coffin - and a chilly, atmosphere-less one at that.

There's no background noise, no hubbub from customers (there weren't many). From somewhere at the far end of the room, a tinny little tune was bleating but we weren't sure if that was a sound system or the window cleaner's transistor radio. So you're not going for the ambience.

Ozu used to be located in the bowels of the same building where we thought it rather quirkily splendid. But now they have a spanky new location, new chef and new menu. The only thing that remains is the name. But why? Damned if I can figure it out.

So are you going for the food? Hmmm... There are umpteen places I would hit before this one: restaurants with better food, both traditional and evolved, and more choice. I tend to view Japanese restaurants as an excuse for some unashamed greediness - most don't adhere to the Western-style starter/main course/pudding menu structure, so you can order profligately. Here, the menu is trim to the point of anorexic.

Greediness aside, it's good but not memorable: chef Stephane Shoji knows what he's doing (unlike many of the hesitant, inadequately schooled staff). OK, so there are a couple of dishes that nudge the wow factor - a hotpot of gloriously savoury and squidgy pork belly braised in soy with steamed bok choy; Gressingham duck breast served with 'brioche': actually a version of dim sum favourite steamed rice flour buns using duck meat instead of pork - but it's not enough to leave you with any residual warmth for the restaurant.

Portions are mostly teeny: king prawn with 'beurre d'escargot' (heavily garlic- and parsleyed-butter) brought two of the babies and a minuscule bowl of mushroom rice for a hefty £18. Tempura-ed sardine fillet delivered barely enough for a picnic roll and cost £11.50. Weirdly, a starter of squid and spring onion spicy crêpe was large enough to feed all four of us.

I normally have an almost photographic memory for what I've eaten but several dishes from Ozu have blurred into fog: the bonito consommÈ with some miso-braised mackerel; a fabulously dull strawberry dessert; some kind of cold, noodly, edamame thing. Apologies but that speaks volumes.

So: inconsistent, uninvolving, uninspiring. Ozu's only real USP seems to be its outlook. When booking, I asked for a table beside the windows - well, that's kind of the point, isn't it? - only to find my guests had been corralled into a tiny corner of Siberia (in an almost empty restaurant) and had asked to be moved twice before scoring a view. Without the vista to deflect your attention from the unrelenting wood panelling and halting service, I just don't get it.