Close but no cigar

I'm not sure what Ashbell McElveen is up to. He appears to have an upside-down career, appearing on TV shows, writing recipe books, cooking for luminaries such as De Niro and Clinton, generally wowing 'em Stateside, all without a smidgen of formal training.

His version of down-home, Southern-style cooking and his African-American affability seem to have struck several chords.

From Carolina via New York, he's now over here, and after colonising cable TV's UK Food channel, he has finally gotten round to actually opening a restaurant, Ashbell's, on his adopted turf of Notting Hill.

There's a lot to like here: a genuine attempt to bring a taste of the Deep South to London, for one thing, and despite a doorman with the charm and appeal of the proverbial brick shithouse, a real warm welcome from the mostly black staff.

Sadly, especially since this strip used to be urban and edgy, with a real place in the history of black London, the punters were your usual Notting Hill milquetoasts.

With its hand-knitted art deco feel - inspired, apparently, by New York's legendary Radio City Music Hall, although I couldn't quite see it myself - it's an endearing little space. You warm to it instantly.

I didn't want a watermelon Martini, but it was offered so sweetly and enthusiastically that it seemed churlish to refuse. Like our meal, it was hit and miss: good fragrance of watermelon, little evidence of hooch, particularly the promised and much anticipated moonshine.

But then we were transfixed by the gorgeousness of the breadbasket - cornbread of a moist, cake-like sponginess and spectacularly delicious biscuits, those Southern first cousins to a scone. Spread with apple butter, they crumbled into shortening-rich nuggets, melting seductively in the mouth. Bread of the year, no question. It totally upstaged our starters, a good Maryland crab cake with an underpowered dill mayo and an overseasoned sage and ginger sausage 'patty' on a weird, damp coleslaw that appeared to have been made from iceberg lettuce.

Then back to great stuff: a side order of the day's special, pork ribs, tender and meaty, dripping with a high-octane barbecue sauce, just the right mix of sour, sweet and smoky - and hot, hot, hot. They like their chillis here, dipping into the incendiary complimentary pickle is likely to short-circuit your tastebuds for the rest of the meal.

Before Ashbell's, I confess to having been a grits virgin. The bland, tapioca-like sludge that arrived with some toothsome pulled pork (slow-cooked and shredded, then doused in barbecue sauce) is unlikely to get a repeat performance. It was like waking up to find a pillow in your mouth. My date had rice with his Charleston seafood gumbo - a soothing, blanquette-like stew packed with prawns, crabmeat and okra. Something called Cherokee Nation corn pudding was strangely moreish: like solidified bread sauce enriched with egg and studded with sweetcorn. Pound cake for pudding? Don't bother, unless leaden sponge floats your boat.