Cheyne reaction

When La Chaumiere, a huge hit in its native France, opened in Cheyne Walk, it was hilariously inappropriate. The former pub had been tricked out to look like Provence, all faux tobacco stains and bunches of lavender. Cooking was done on an open fire. The only things that suggested you might be in Chelsea were the prices: at £45 for the set menu, it was up there with London's hautest.

Rather than sophistication, however, you got a demented rustic repast, with meats roasted on the hearth and positively ludicrous baskets of 'crudites' - erm, whole raw veg.

Enter the Cheyne Walk Brasserie on the same site. At first glance, it bears little resemblance to its predecessor, being urbanly gorgeous. The interior is by Shaun Clarkson, the chap responsible for the look of some of the capital's coolest drinking dens.

With its Tiffany-blue leather banquettes and twinkling chandeliers, it's a decorative setting for a pashmina-swathed, middle-aged bunch. There is also a bar where a younger, hair-flicking tribe was hanging out, no doubt attracted by the Dick Bradsell-devised cocktail list, and an upstairs 'salon', chockfull of chaises longues and wearing a somewhat self-consciously decadent demeanour.

As I sipped my cocktail, a familiar sight wafted past. A basket piled with whole vegetables like a mini Harvest Festival. I grabbed the menu. Yep. There it was in all its £45 glory - La Chaumiere is not dead, it's just gone and reinvented itself so thoroughly that Madonna would be green with envy. And just like La Ciccone, it's called on the hottest names in the business to help it look good.

Still, as part of the reconstructive surgery, the set menu has been augmented by an a la carte, so there's a lot more choice (and the option to have just one course - when we checked out La Chaumiere, I remember questioning the wisdom of foisting four hefty courses on Chelsea's wafer-thin women). It's still pretty basic stuff, with chef Franck Lebiez's enthusiasm for Provence beaming out: pissaladiere de sardines; whole grilled seabass with ProvenÃal herbs; salads dressed with lavender.

Rustic it may be, but it's competently executed. A creme de choux-fleurs was a musky, creamy cauliflower soup; both this and a heady soupe a l'oignon tasted of good stock. Sadly, though, the cheese-laden croute on my soup had been added at the end rather than blasted under the grill for that authentic boiling hot, gloopy-underneath-charred-on-top sensation.

The open fire dictated our main courses - or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the place was freezing; our lovely waiter struggled manfully to shut a painted-open window to no avail. But then if the meat is good, as it is here, there's little to beat a woodcharred, rosemary fragranced, pinkly tender chunk of flesh. Both a sirloin of beef and delicious carre d'agneau - yielding, little lollipops of lamb - delivered on the promise.

I ain't no Chelsea X-ray, so I went for the tarte tatin. This, a thick, unpretty slab of pie, was what my mother would call ignorant. To slide it down, I was given a galvanised bucket of creme fraiche: you know, the kind you plunge a mop into, with a wooden paddle for scooping out the cream. All this silliness didn't detract from the fact that it tasted great - tart and caramelly - and I ate far more of it than I'd intended.

But remember - it's rustic food at decidedly urban prices: by the time we'd added lovely, crunchy green beans and an anaemic gratin dauphinoise to the lamb, it cost £25! A bit too Marie Antoinette for my blood.

Cheyne Walk Brasserie
Cheyne Walk, London, SW3 5LR