Chips off the old Bloc

I don't think I'm cut out for restaurant reviewing, to be honest. For a start, I haven't eaten a proper meal since 1976 - since when I've tended to find food intrusive and largely disagreeable. Plus, there's the cigarettes. The millions of Raffles and Superkings I've sucked dry in the past 25 years have clearly dulled the taste of all but the most vindictive curries.

I mention this because I don't want to disappoint you. I've been reading Fay Maschler virtually since I stopped eating and she's been a wonderful surrogate source of nourishment over the years. I am not worthy.

But that being said, I enjoyed Baltic. I've always liked the food of eastern Europe, possibly because it's usually in short supply and you have to queue for it. There aren't enough eastern European restaurants in London. There are too many Thai, not enough Ukrainian.

Baltic, as the name suggests, is hedging its bets, nationality-wise. It's sort of Polish crossed with what we used to call Byelorussian plus a dash of the Ukraine and, here and there, the occasional venture into the Caucasus.

The ambience is great, too. There's a long bar bestrewn with attractive, fashionable thirtysomethings, with the restaurant itself beyond. Worryingly, there is a raised platform in one corner which you just know is going to be inhabited by musicians at some stage in the evening - and worst of all, probably jazz musicians, jazz being about the only music people from former Eastern Bloc countries were allowed to like back in the days when the commies were in charge. But right now, the night is young and be-bop free.

I am dining à deux with a very beautiful woman. I can't tell you her name because her boyfriend will kick my head in. But the more pressing problem is that, faced with such extravagant beauty, my appetite has dissolved into an even smaller pool than usual. Throughout the evening, I sit doe-eyed, picking at the food - which is an injustice, because it is excellent.

We begin our meal with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and follow it rather rapidly with a second bottle. So far, everything is going swimmingly. And then, mercilessly, the food arrives.

My borscht is not the sort of borscht you would find in Nowa Huta, Wroclaw or Lodz. It is a deep, livid purple devoid of what my mother used to call roughage - ie bits of beetroot and onion.

Its sharpness is softened a little by sour cream which, if we're honest, accompanies virtually every dish. The stuff creeps in everywhere. But this soup is delicious and is helped on its way by a delicate mushroom pastry which, I suspect, would also be absent from most menus east of the Vistula.

My companion, who has now taken off her jacket (thus diminishing my appetite still further), chooses scallops with a lightly pickled red cabbage, which seems an ungainly combination but apparently works very well indeed.