Baltic's slav at first bite

This review was published in July 2001

As the fire alarm sounded for the fourth time in 20 minutes, a man at the next table leaned over to apologise. 'I asked for my steak well done,' he said, 'but I think they went a bit far.'

Problems with technology apart, there were few of the teething troubles normally associated with early days at this stylish new restaurant, where the service is slicker than Michael Portillo's quiff.

Baltic is clever - very clever. The owners (also responsible for Kensington's Wodka) have found an ideal location for it in a formerly derelict Georgian building opposite snazzy new Southwark station, where it's ideally situated for footsore art exiles from Tate Modern and commuters needing a shot of vodka before facing the Tube home.

It's cleverly designed - a long, thin, busy bar offers non-diners a dozen home-made vodkas, Latvian beers and decent nibbles such as herring or caviar blini, Russian pickles, chilled soup and aubergine dip with rye. At the far end you reach a cavernous yet still cosy eating space with high white walls and exposed beams. There are places to be seen, corners in which to hide and plenty to entertain the eye, with big art and an arresting amber chandelier.

I usually like the idea of a bar leading directly to the tables, it replaces the formal, static restaurant atmosphere with instant conviviality, yet as the thumping bass of a dance track wafted towards us I dreaded the thought of a noisy night. I either got used to it quickly or they turned it down.

The main menu is undeniably impressive, with a mix of mainly Russian and Polish dishes put together with a light touch, eschewing the dense stews and cabbagey dishes that sit heavily in English stomachs. It isn't just a British menu with a Baltic twist, it's the real McCoy.

We started with a fragrant and punchy chlodnik, a borscht-style beetroot soup made with radishes and sour cream, and foie gras on a potato cake, served with juicy medlar berries. The foie gras and berries were cooked to perfection but overpowered by the saltiness of the potato cake, which might have been delicious with a steak but absolutely destroyed the subtlety of the liver.

To follow, I opted for a classic: roast duck on an apple and onion compôte with red cabbage, which I can now confirm is quite the best to be had in London (although it must be said that its half-dozen rivals are nothing to write home about). My friend chose the rump of lamb with aubergine and sour cream, which, though generous, was disappointingly flavourless. In a blind tasting, you'd have been hard pressed to identify the meat. We compensated with some excellent side dishes: a carrot salad with honey, caraway and mint, and a luscious sour cream and chive mash.

Puddings were also terrific: crêpes stuffed with sweet cheese, nuts and raisins, and a slice of proper, gut-clogging, baked cheesecake just as my grandmother used to make it. The only sour note was the gooey, nasty red coulis that decorated each plate.

With no coffee but a super bottle of Pouilly Fumé, mineral water and two small shots of vodka to kick off proceedings, the bill came to £86 excluding service. Steep, but cheaper than a flight to Warsaw.