Hit by Greenhouse effect

I'd choose to live with it whenever possible: it's that good. Let's get the loot out of the way: we had the tasting menu at £75 a head, less than you'll pay at The Square (£90), considerably less than the £110 you'll pay at Gordon Ramsay Royal Hospital Road. And, compared with the terrifying moolah you'll shell out in Paris for Pierre Gagnaire or for Ducasse in Monaco, it looks like value for money. I'm not being disingenuous: at this level of operation, this is just what you pay.

That our bill soared to a figure I can't quite bring myself to mention is partly down to young Italian sommelier Jacopo Focacci. He treated us to a preview of something very special: a computerised wine list, its clunky technology hidden in smooth, discreet leather casing.

The Greenhouse has already won several international wine awards and this mesmerising gadget, only the second in the world (the other is in Vegas), tips it up a notch. It's the ultimate wine-geek toy; I blame it for our boozy financial incontinence. A bottle of ripe, full-bodied Franz Hirtzberger Honivolg Gruner Veltliner '06 at £86 and an intriguing Italian Focara Impero Pinot Nero '01 at £74 sent our final tally to (sticks fingers in ears, goes 'lahlahlah' and hangs head in shame).

Anyway, The Greenhouse has been around for ages, so why are we here? To clock the revamp, undertaken by most recent owner and éminence grise Marlon Abela, the dashing heir to a catering empire. And to check out the cooking from latest kitchen incumbent Antonin Bonnet, who has held gigs both at triple-starred heavy hitters and as Abela's private chef.

A couple of years ago, Michelin added an 'espoir' to The Greenhouse's single star, a designation that indicates the imminent likelihood of a second. However, the espoir evaporated, possibly as a result of the loss of previous chef Bjorn van der Horst.

I don't doubt that the new look is a direct appeal to those tyre chappies.

Gone are the achingly twee birdcages, fake flowers, sugary palette and suburban sitting room vases. Designers Virgile and Stone have given it an air of understated, power-broking luxury: from the moment you find it, down a hidden backstreet mews, through a serene and pretty Japanese-style garden, you know you're in for a luxurious ride.

The meal we eat here is better than any enjoyed under the undeniably talented van der Horst, who went on to open La Noisette for Ramsay Holdings. (Which, as a gossipy aside, has quietly disappeared.)

The food is accessorised by amuses and pre-amuses, pre-desserts and petit fours. It's all - with the exception of a dessert of caramel, banana and grué (cocoa nibs) of filling-jangling sweetness - bloody lovely.

Of course, there are foams and folderols, but the foundation of each dish is solid kitchen excellence: wild turbot may dazzle with soubise-ish caramelised onions, a subtle kiss of winey foam, fudgey purée of tamarind and date, and scented, nutty couscous, but the fish itself is flawlessly cooked.

The pan-fried Landes duck foie gras looks raw. I brave it anyway and it tastes luscious, helped by a scintillating accompaniment of sharp blood orange and perfumed bergamot. I later discover it's slow-cooked at a very low temperature before a final searing to give it an almost jellied texture. Clever, but not entirely convincing.

There's subtle, unctuous tuna tartare with shiso that seems to be made from the prized, fatty tuna belly; thrilling liquorice and pumpkin purée, and the crunch of candied black olive with one, perfect diver-caught scallop. Ruby breast of pigeon in sticky gomasio (sesame and salt crust) comes with its de-clawed leg, both sauced and stuffed with its innards: superb, carnal essence of game.

We get flurries of puddings: prosecco granita with raspberry and balsamic; dense chocolate mousse studded with what seem to be walnut Maltesers. Petit fours feature handmade coconut marshmallow and weeny, warm chocolate fondant.

Thanks to the lightness of touch and clarity of flavours - it's no surprise to hear that Bonnet spent three years with the legendary Michel Bras - there's no sense of blowout.

The clientele is overwhelmingly made up of male City types: if you imagine background hubbub going 'demographic demographic' instead of 'rhubarb rhubarb' you'll get the general idea.

The staff, with the exception of suave maitre d' Jean-Marie Miorada, seem a little headless chickeny, perhaps because of the arrival of Marlon Abela himself, coming on like the culinary world's Robbie Williams. And I hated that sickly pud. If it hadn't been for those hiccups, we'd have given The Greenhouse five stars. Gladly.

The Greenhouse
27a, Hays Mews, W1G 5NY