Hedone, W4 - review

In the philosophy of Epicurus, hedone was the quest for pleasure that would only have good consequences, something of a contrast to our understanding of hedonism, of which the word is the root. Hedone is also the Greek name for Voluptas, daughter of the gods Eros and Psyche.

And now it is the name of a restaurant on Chiswick High Road.

Hedone (pronounced hed-own-ee on the restaurant's answerphone) is the creation of Mikael Jonsson, a Swedish chap who trained as a chef and then became a lawyer before deciding to return to the stoves.

In the meantime he was also advising chefs and restaurateurs where to find the best possible ingredients and collaborating on a website (gastroville.com) which evaluates restaurants around the world. Revealingly - and encouragingly - the UK recommendation is for The Sportsman in Seasalter, near Whitstable.

On this site, Jonsson states that, according to his mother, his obsession with produce started at about the time he began to walk. I suppose before then foraging - or even a little local shopping - would have been tricky. Now, however he looks more like a benign teacher - a civics lecturer, suggested my companion - than the popular idea of a chef. He works in an open kitchen that - but for an ultra-high-tech oven - relates to the dining area in almost a domestic way. Those who want to watch his every move can sit at a counter overlooking the cooking arena.

Eating out has undergone a sea change. Where once there was a simple expectation of pleasure and perhaps with luck a bit of hedonism thrown in, there is now in certain establishments a sort of exam or assault course, where for hours on end you work your way through countless mysterious, often creepily demulcent substances and, if you are of that mind, reverentially photograph each one. Any attempt at conversation or a joke is killed stone dead by a lengthy explanation of the latest manifestation or an inquisition as to how much you are enjoying it. When I went with friends to Noma a waiter told us to stop laughing, sit up and pay more attention.

Fortunately, Hedone is not of this ilk. The room is high, wide and handsome with a wittily sketched ceiling, and offers the opportunity to sit comfortably leaning against pillowy cushions suspended from a pole. (Stipulate that seating, if possible, when you book). The welcome from Aurelie, whom I remember from, I think, nearby La Trompette, is warm and natural. Young, mainly French staff spend most of their time as acolytes in the kitchen and then bring out the significantly delectable food at a graceful pace - no long waits - and without fuss. I should point out now that there were only a few other tables occupied when we visited last Wednesday. Deserved crowds may slow things down.

Jonsson is no fan of molecular gastronomy, believing that ingredients become denatured and some of the mechanical and chemical processes used are deleterious. His own food has remarkable clarity. Effort is expended in tracking down produce that is best in show - if possible in the UK - and effecting interesting, fortuitous introductions.

The menu changes in part daily so I won't wax too long or lyrical about any one dish in case it has disappeared. Highlights of our well-shaped, well-balanced eight-course dinner included a savoury custard topped with a purée of nori - entitled umami flan, seaweed coulis - served small and hot and packing a powerful punch. A sablé (crumbly biscuit) flavoured with Berkswell cheese had preceded it but this was the official opening shot - and was duly impressive. A smooth gazpacho with a scoop of dill-flower cream was intense and slightly surprising, as if pieces of melon had crept into the blender along with the tomatoes.

Translucent steamed scallops, judged in the cooking to a nanosecond, were served simply with their juices. With shellfish so fine nothing else is needed. Slow cooked hen egg - that is how it is written - accompanied by Scottish girolles and a slice of peach was an amazing combination not only of flavours but of colours, the yolk vying with the mushrooms for the description "golden" and the peach streaked with pink like the dawn of a bonny day.

Squeaky-fresh almonds and fleshy leaves of sea aster (Waitrose fish counters sometimes sell them) were the garnish and textural contrast to a chunk of Dorset wild turbot. I admit to remembering eating more impressive turbot at Wilton's but it probably cost the same as five courses here.

The flesh of squab pigeon with a sort of pesto of parsley and pistachios plus Charlotte potatoes lightly smoked over juniper berries was daringly rare but fabulous. The simplicity of baked apricot served with almond blancmange was such that the thought occurred that it could have easily been made at home. But we don't, do we?