Better know your onions

I am poking about in my pudding - 'lemongrass and ginger soup - summer fruits, mango and passion fruit sorbet'. The sorbet is luscious; the teeny figs are ripely sultry; the lychee is... well, the 'lychee' is, in fact, an onion.

It jostles with its plate-mates, fennel and rocket. This little number has a curious effect on my companion, turning a mild-mannered man into a red-faced, oi-not-in-this-neck-of-the-woods reactionary. And I can't say I blame him.

Is it a witticism? A playful Nordic fancy (chef Agnar Sverrisson comes from Iceland; no, not that one)? Maybe it's a piece of performance art, like fellow Icelander Bjork's about-as-successful swan dress? Or is it just mickey-taking?

Gawd knows. But watching Sverrisson stomp around his soignee dining room, I don't think it's a joke: this lowering little chap doesn't look over-endowed with bubbling humour. Nope, he looks like a man on a mission, a Michelin mission. And his onions - and bacon popcorns and parmesan ices - don't come across as levity but as deadly serious headlinegrabbers designed by a young man violently determined to make his mark.

He and partner, equally young and ambitious Xavier Rousset - he was the world's youngest Master Sommelier - have created a restaurant that reeks of testosterone. Forget the beige silkiness of the decor, the restrained luxury of the upholstery and fittings, the champagne bar... there is nothing girlie about this operation. These boys are showing off for other boys: fellow chefs, online gastropornographers, thrill-seeking critics and, of course, Michelin.

Here and there, cutting through the international good taste no doubt inflicted by the moneymen, are flashes of aggressive butchness - clunky, loudly coloured place settings; lurid artworks - giving an inkling of what the place might look like if the two of them were given free rein. The mind boggles.

I don't know where their customers are coming from. On the night we visit, they're a designer-clad, nipped and tucked, wealthy bunch. Perhaps, like hairdressers, the guys have brought their fan base from their last gig, Raymond Blanc's Manoir au Quat' Saisons. They're sure as heck not coming from the adjoining, unappealing Mostyn Hotel, which you have to brave in order to access the lavs. Which is fun.

In places like this, you feel compelled to go for the tasting menu, so we do. Ours weighs in at £59, reasonable enough for this level of ambition. Matching wines by the glass are extra - 'from £45pp', although ours add up to more than £50pp; they're an intriguing collection roaming from Portuguese Alvarinho to Greek Muscat. By the time we have water, camomile tea (with some ravishing petit fours, including the most glorious lemon thyme madeleines) and cheese, we've racked up a startling bill of £215. Only one of us is drinking.

Of course, you get the requisite 'freebies': fabulous bread with olive oil and mousse-y tapenade, the first of many black olive cameos, and wasabi emulsion. Then, current 'Most Fashionable Dish in Town' - recently spotted at Rhodes W1 and Angelus - crab with avocado. The emulsion, served with a variety of 'crisps' - wafers of Parmesan, bread, potato and cod-skin; hey, texture! - is lush. We wonder what causes its oily subtlety. 'Only wasabi,' our waiter confidently avers. Since the roof of my head is intact, I think this unlikely.

Dishes come rapidly. A play on tomato and artichoke, with tomato deconstructed into various textures: fondanty, confit lozenges; sort of sun-dried; and a slice dried into a whisper-thin wisp. There are teeny, baby salad leaves and more black olive, painted in a dashing stripe across the plate and dusted grittily on top of El Bulli-lite Parmesan ice.