Grazing rites and gaffes

You can eat out in Greece more or less any time of day or night. A few weeks of that makes it particularly irritating when, on your return, you ring a brand new London restaurant - pretty sure that it won't yet be busy - to be told that you can't come at the time requested; it must be later.

Since I was still on Greek time at the beginning of last week, ie two hours ahead of GMT, I said to my pals, let's go earlier anyway. Blow me, imagine this - there were lots of empty tables at Origin and we were able to sit down right away. I appreciate that kitchens need to stagger meals but there weren't enough customers to make this an issue.

Origin replaces what was Thyme at The Hospital in Covent Garden, the transposition of the much admired Thyme in Clapham. With its charm mislaid somewhere in Battersea, its soul tipped into the Thames and the good value falling off the back of the removal van near the Strand, Thyme on the first floor of Paul Allen's and Dave Stewart's private members' club for "creative and like-minded people" lasted less than a year.

It shows pluck and optimism on the part of chef Adam Byatt and his backers to try again, jettisoning what was a hideous restaurant interior and creating a bar for all-day eating and drinking.

Byatt has worked with Phil Howard at The Square and he is an accomplished cook. His preferred approach is to send out a parade of small dishes, something he managed effortlessly in Clapham and seems not beyond the wit of other ambitious chefs who champion grazing.

At Origin, two waiting staff, one immediately after the other, laboriously explained what we must do. We must either have three starters and a dessert or a starter, main course and dessert chosen from a long menu where the dishes on the right-hand side come in two sizes, two prices.

Being told how to eat immediately makes you feel at the mercy of the kitchen. Whose enjoyment is it anyway, you start to think, particularly when long waits occur and the natural rhythm of a meal is disturbed. Failing to get the bottle of Rully we ordered didn't help.

First the waitress brought Pouilly-Fuissé, then she brought an Alsace white made by Rolly-Gassmann. When I pointed out that the two Ls were in this order, R-U-L-L-Y, she said peevishly that she wasn't French. Well, neither am I.

The wine arrived halfway through our first three courses of Cornish crab ravioli in a herb broth with tarragon oil and an unheralded - but welcome - battered oyster; bland, creamy pumpkin-and-Parmesan soup; and rather tough lobster with a good salad of avocado and green beans in citrus vinaigrette.

Risotto of white onion with cèpes was delicious and for once foam was an asset. Glazed Orkney lamb tongues were horrible. "Either cook lamb tongues because you love them, and poach and peel them, or don't do it," said their recipient crossly, and went on to remark that the roasted scallops with glazed veal belly were not communicating with one another.