Frisson of pleasure

I have a confession: even if the food at the Belvedere was terrible - Lucio's/Novelli In The City/ Angus Steakhouse terrible - I'd still love it. Its beautiful Arcadian setting in Holland Park, that most elegant of city parks, and its deliciously proportioned building never fail to give me a frisson of pleasure.

I went there when it was owned by Johnny Gold (of Tramp fame), I went there when it bore the unmistakable touch of current partner (with Jimmy Lahoud, still my favourite restaurateur name) Marco Pierre White, and now I've tipped up for the latest revamp. What has happened over the years is a democratisation of the place.

Under Gold, it ran like a private club for minted Eurotrash and local resident Michael Winner, not for the hoi polloi likes of you and me. Then MPW glossed it with his trademark 'affordable glamour' (affordable, that is, if you think Cipriani is a nice local trat). The interior, with its glittering mirrors, billowing creamy drapes and Chinoiserie, became as beautiful as the exterior. This, the capital's loveliest restaurant, defined destination.

The fabulous news is that today's incarnation means it's accessible to everyone. You might not ever be able to score with the fantasy date from the pages of Heat but you can dine here. And leave with a smile on your face. It looks as lovely as ever, but prices are truly magnanimous. Starters are about £8, mains hover round the £13 mark; even side orders, all £3, are billed 'available... but not necessary'. These are gastropub figures in Michelin-style surroundings.

Chef Billy Reid, whose CV is packed with impressive names - The Vineyard at Stockcross, L'Escargot, The Waterside Inn - has devised a menu which, despite looking like an MPW number, is a lot more gutsy than his boss's usual style. You'll find French-influenced dishes jostling with pastas, risottos, salads, battered fillet of cod, veal cutlets, ribeye of beef; even hamburgers with fries and Cumberland sausages.

It's like one of those nouveau bistros so popular in Manhattan right now. Gordon Ramsay tried to ape these with his Boxwood Cafè - and, with its expensive, brown-studied formality, singularly failed to do so. How odd that the once rarefied Belvedere might be the place to pull it off.

Our starters were just OK: timidly marinated, fridge-cold slices of Scottish salmon crowned with a few perky leaves and a daily special of a bowlful of teeny - but perkily sweet - moules mariniere.

Main courses were better, a right pair of wintry rib-stickers. A splendid beef suet pudding - firm-but-gooey crust yielding to slow-braised meat in a pungent, thyme-laced gravy - came with silky potato puree and carrots that had been simmered and caramelised till they resembled fondants.

The only reason I didn't love this more passionately is that my heart still belongs to the mutton pudding served at Gary Rhodes's Twenty Four, the most ravishing creation this side of a culinary wet dream. But still, a stalwart attempt. Velvety, accurately cooked calves' liver came with a punchy red wine reduction, proper bacon and more of the mash.

We didn't need a sinfully sticky pear tartin with double cream. But we had it anyway. Good but, with its pool of non-integral toffee, not what you'd call classic.