Average grub amid the glamour

This review was published in March 2002

As I was opening the press information from Sugarhut, a couple of groovy young gals wafted past my desk. The lavish photography of the interior elicited gasps of admiration and requests for the phone number - it's definitely that kind of place. Bucketsful of style, but is it at the expense of content?

From the moment you pull up outside the real thing, you know that the look is, indeed, of paramount importance. Massive, heavy wooden doors, gnomically carved and flanked with potted trees present an intimidating front; you find yourself in the decidedly uncool situation of trying to figure out if this is, in fact, your destination. Only a tiny brass plaque gives anything resembling a hint. Uncoolness is intensified by the fact that the doors, on my visit, were locked.

Standing in the scabby end of Fulham outside a joint that may or may not contain your booked table and fumbling with the brass handles is a sure-fire formula for an impression of Mr Bean-ish social ineptitude. And inside, the heavy-handed glamour continues. It's described as ' perfectly fusing the eastern styles of Thailand, Sri Lanka, Indonesia and Morocco', which translates as a collision between opium den and upmarket knocking shop.

This is not to diss its undeniable appeal - it's dimly, opulently beautiful. There are velvet drapes, palms, jewelled lanterns, candles; nooks and crannies sprout objects and gee-gaws, some halfhidden; floors and walls are reminiscent of the interior of a cave; in the bar area, the floor is strewn with richly embroidered cushions upon which lounge the jeunesse dorèe of SW6 - albeit rather uncomfortably.

Here's further proof - were it needed - of the increasing gentrification of the North End Road, a far cry from my days of living there, when a journey to the Tube involved an obstacle course through the market's rotting fruit.

So, is the menu up to the challenge of the design? I'm afraid not. It's not that it's bad, it's simply no different to your local above-pub Thai restaurant. Again, this isn't necessarily a criticism, it's just that your surroundings lead you to expect so much more: in a culinary climate where the Nahm s of this world are thrilling the palate with boundary-pushing dishes, the choice here comes as a distinct anticlimax.

Here they all are, the usual suspects - the phad Thais, the porpia thods (spring rolls), fishcakes, tom yams, green and red curries, even chicken with cashew nuts - and all of them at riotous prices. Massaman lamb curry at £13.50, for instance, before you've ordered rice.

Like you'd imagine, presentation is gorgeous: a plate of mixed starters - good beef and chicken satays, rather rubbery steamed pork and shrimp dumplings, terminally dull porpia, toogreasy fishcakes - looked like a dream. And portions are massive, much more to British tastes than your average Thai: a pile of mixed vegetables in batter with sweet chilli looked like a haystack; laab kai - a fiercely hot and pungently savoury salad of mixed chicken with lime and chilli - was dauntingly huge.

A roasted duck curry was packed with sparky flavours, and, as is truly authentic, had both pea and baby aubergines in the mix, but featured characterless meat, as did stirfried beef with chilli and basil leaves. Slicing meat thinly shouldn't preclude moistness and flavour. Rice, both jasmine and sticky, was flawless.

Looking round our fellow diners and drinkers, I came to the conclusion that food was very much not a priority: I was the largest gal in the room by quite a few dress sizes and the only one not gussied-up to the eyeballs. I'm not being foodist, but the target audience here is clearly people far more interested in this season's bag than seasonal produce. Which is fine: in Sugarhut they have a perfectly lovely setting to show off their sparkle.