Behind the doors at No.5

Every week we are inundated with puff from publicists. But never before have I received a press release from the office of that most notorious of PR people, Max Clifford. He's more usually associated with firefighting on behalf of red-top fodder celebrities - so why is he representing newly-opened No.5 Cavendish Square? This warren of bars, restaurants and rooms in the former Spanish Embassy would seem more at home with one of the lifestyle publicists - until you look into its ownership. On the one hand you have 38-year-old 'flamboyant Sicilian aristocrat' and owner of a London chain of hair salons, Jay Maggistro. On the other hand you have Cheryl Barrymore. Yes, that Cheryl Barrymore. Ah, that explains it.

Maggistro has apparently sunk £20million of his own money into this first venture. Twenty million? That's a sum that makes the £10million spent on Sketch look positively restrained. His own money? God, there's money in hair. Cheryl's input would appear to be less hefty: 'His money, her name,' explained Clifford's office succinctly. You have to admire Maggistro's cojones: betting that kind of money on La Barrymore's pulling power seems a little, well, daredevil.

So where has the money gone? It's an undeniably handsome building; the somewhat sombre interior has been burnished 'til it gleams with the lustre of a million expensive decorating flourishes. My date, a chap who knows about that sort of thing, reckoned the lushly patinated marquetry tables in the restaurant wouldn't see any change from a couple of grand each. Everything that stands still long enough has been elaborately inlaid. Doesn't quite work, though: tiny paintings are marooned on rag-rolled walls; weaselly little chandeliers do little to pierce the gloom; there's the occasional naffly ornate sofa that looks like it belongs in the home of a suburban wife-swapper.

Maybe the money's gone on the staff: the bar is populated by smart,
professional mixologists (two Martinis came to almost £25) and a brigade of underdressed, overconfident women whose make-up allowance alone must've eaten up a sizeable chunk of the budget. There's a poor chap who seems employed to do nothing but sweep the gleaming floor, just where you wanted to walk on it.

Where it hasn't gone would appear to be the kitchen. I asked the Clifford lot for urgent details on the chef. None were forthcoming. On the strength of our meal, this reticence seems prudent: in poignant contrast to the richness of the surroundings, the food was poor. Large cottony prawns in flaccid batter do not tempura make, nor does accessorising them with guacamole and a Parmesan basket make any kind of culinary sense. Millefeuille means 'a thousand layers': three indeterminate wafers cradling some white crab meat (little evidence of the billed fennel and lime) doesn't quite live up to the name. Squid ink spaghetti with lobster was awful: over-salted, the pasta soft and claggy, the seafood tough and fibrous; weirdly, the whole thing tasted of tea.

A crëme brulèe would have embarrassed a first-year catering student: its unpleasantly granular texture evidence of badly judged cooking temperatures. The only redeeming dish was a pan-fried breast of duck - excellent, accurately cooked meat - with 'smashed' celeriac and orange and pepper 'jus'.

The place is already busy - Clifford power? We tried to spot someone who looked like a multimillionaire Sicilian hair salon chain owner but gave up after the 17th or 18th candidate. From the high gloss of the clientele, I'd hazard that No.5 is going for the see-and-be-seen market (there's a jarringly incongruous screen in the main bar, constantly playing fashion TV). If so, it might do well - after all, if you want to fit into your Maria Grachvogel, it's best to avoid eating.

No.5 Cavendish Square W1. Tel: 020 7079 5000. Tube: Oxford Circus

No. 5 Restaurant & Bar
Cavendish Square, London, W1G 0PG