Is there a Dr in the house?

At a Chinese New Year party to celebrate the Year Of The Goat, I'm told it will be a difficult one for those born under my sign. Later the same evening, we hit Notting Hill's new must-do bar, Lonsdale, where my fortune suffers an immediate downturn. Our order has still not materialised almost two hours after we arrive, by which time even a scabby goat would do for dinner.

We are offered two perfect placatory martinis by way of an apology for a kitchen in meltdown - pole-axed by 35 early evening covers, apparently. Service is affable, if erratic, and I'm sensing a venture in the grip of teething problems - I attempted a review last week and was told dinner reservations were not taken, yet on arrival the place had been block-booked, consigning us to the pavement.

Our quintet of fairly substantial tapas dishes finally shows and, like the venue, succeeds in part - risotto has the required bite, sashimi is skimpy but good, chicken stew hits the spot, merguez in pitta is bland and Roquefort and tapenade crostini are a gooey, sickly mulch. With two cocktails each, the damage is £64, not deadly for a W11-style bar.

The venue formerly known as Jacs has undergone a style transformation. The narrow entrance opens, Tardis-like, into a long, windowless room housing a black marble bar, low tables, leather and fake fur benches and bronze nodule walls like the cladding on a Dalek. A sexy Caramac-coloured rear lounge under a circular cupola adds to the overall feel of an upmarket 1970s nightclub.

It's buzzy, animated and horribly hot. Buffed identikit designer-clad regulars seem more South Ken than Portobello. Date says it reminds her of a night out in Zurich... now that really would be a great misfortune.

Lonsdale
Lonsdale House, 44-48 Lonsdale Road, W11 2DE