Drink in the views

What a delicious place The Bingham is. A truly lovely Georgian townhouse poised in a perfect position overlooking one of the prettier parts of the Thames at Richmond, it oozes history and not a small amount of typically Richmondian selfsatisfaction. Even the name makes you think of sparky Jane Austen heroines and men in improbably tight breeches.

From the road, there's little to indicate the pleasures that lie inside. Owners the Trinder family have revamped the space in dramatic monochrome, laced with scarlet: leather faux-deco armchairs, mirrored consoles, ornate chairs and acres of linen.

Although, on closer inspection, it looks as though their budget may be tighter than it first appears - I couldn't resist a sneak around the guest quarters where, suddenly, stylish modernity gives way to rather a lot of fusty old chintz.

Anyway, back to the gorgeousness. A large, airy bar gives out on to a wrap-around balcony where you can sip your pre-lunch drink. The river shimmers just beyond the delightful walled garden. On one of the first sunny days of the year, we're talking as close to idyllic as you'll get within shouting distance of town. It made my mind wander, rather alarmingly, to summer weddings.

But oh dear, how utterly undelicious is the food. As befits the surroundings, the menu has its airs and graces: it froths with poncinesses, like rocket crËme caramel and kohlrabi carpaccio (do me a favour...). However, if you're going to come on with the lofty act, you really have to be able to walk the walk.

We didn't eat one dish that gave us any pleasure. A soufflé of 'mature stilton and organic carrot' had the dense, springy texture of that Oasis stuff you use for flower arranging and tasted of, well, nothing. Sorry, I'll be fair - it tasted like egg white: no yolk, no cheese, some limp shards of carrot.

Our other starter consisted of one solitary, overcooked scallop sitting in its shell on top of a damp nest of julienned vegetables (more carrot) and peas with a vague taste of liquorice.

The only really passable number was a handsome chunk of properly cooked halibut on tubes of salsify, an intriguing combination playing on the oystery taste of the root. But the dish had spent so long under the kitchen lights that its butter sauce wrinkled geriatrically on contact.

True horror, though, was waiting in my main course. I asked for a larger portion of a starter (staff are charming and accommodating): 'tempura medallions' of monkfish with sauce gribiche, a classic accompaniment made from boiled egg.

The yolk is mashed with oil to an emulsion, the white finely minced with herbs and seasoning; the resulting mix is light, subtle and enjoyably eggy. Not here.