Kenneth Williams would have loved Divo

Parties are like love affairs: a bad experience can put you off forever, while the good ones are unforgettable. There's a subtle but indefinable alchemy to throwing a successful party: the same ingredients can turn up remarkably different results - and for no discernible reason.

I've partied in lots of different countries and the best recent one I've been to was held at an Italian vineyard to celebrate the harvest. A whole small roasted pig was served with wild boar and truffle sauces, and there were cheeses and figs and white peaches - the fruit tumbling over the bowls like a still-life painting.

Unless they're college students (and even then it's on a predetermined night), Americans aren't natural party animals. They tend to have an agenda that's more about networking than having fun. And what fun can be had when nobody eats much or drinks anything? It's just a lot of uptight people watching the door to see who else is arriving.

I asked a chic Parisian friend of a certain age what kind of parties she went to these days and she blinked at me as if I were crazy. Parties are for those under 30, she said firmly. Anything after that becomes an embarrassment. And she has a point: there is nothing more excruciating than watching middle-aged people trying to dance to the music of their youth. Dancing is for the young and the predatory and should only be a spectator sport for those whose age exceeds their waist measurement.

One part of the world I've not visited a lot is Eastern Europe. I've yet to make it to Russia, for example, but have travelled in the Ukraine from Kiev to Sevastopol and Odessa. And since our Slavic friends have a reputation for hard partying, ES suggested I drop in on Divo, a Ukrainian restaurant famous for its crazy décor and vodka on tap, situated in Waterloo Place, just off Pall Mall.

It is hard to work out just how this particular restaurant found itself in this particular location. Imagine a world run on the lines of the Eurovision Song Contest and you have Divo. Piped, tinny music by a Ukrainian pop group who deserve nul points plays loudly. The female staff wear tight maroon costumes with white peasant blouses, which makes them look like they're understudying Julie Andrews in The Sound Of Music.

I had taken my friend the linguist and we were looking forward to catching up and sampling a cuisine that was dramatically 'different'. We were not to be disappointed. We were shown to a table that was next to a giant plasma TV, so it felt like being in a bookie's. This projected a running slideshow of scenes from the Ukraine, and I kept expecting one of the waitresses to burst into song.

Sipping flat Coca-Cola, we glanced at the menu, which clearly reflects the national love of beetroot. There are lots of potatoes, too. Peasant food, but at a price: a starter of mother-in-law's fish roulade cost £16. However, if you're feeling flush, you can always opt for pancakes with caviar at £350 a pop.

We were tempted by the cured lard entrée, but instead plumped for the Divo salad, which seemed to be missing its main ingredient of chicken and tasted like factory-made coleslaw with the added pink blush of... beetroot.

An amuse-bouche of chicken had an airline-food quality about it and my guest chose the rabbit stew. This would not be wild rabbit, our helpful waitress explained, but a domestic rabbit. I thought of my childhood pet and gulped. Sorry, Flash.