Made in Manhattan

Gordon Ramsay dumbs down, the rumour mill has chuntered. Well, no, actually; with the opening of Boxwood Cafè, what he's achieved is a new kind of accessibility.

This cavernous new space, previously Vong at the Berkeley, is Ramsay's reflection of those brilliant Manhattan restaurants that seem effortlessly to exude informality and chic while dishing out some pretty serious food. And all at prices that would get you a starter at Royal Hospital Road. Mentioned in prelaunch dispatches have been hot Noo Yoik joints like Daniel's (Boxwood head chef Stuart Gillies worked there); the Union Square Cafè; the Gramercy Tavern. There's even been a namecheck for the Hard Rock Cafè 'as it was in the 1970s'.

The nearest London has got to this kind of thing so far is the Electric Brasserie, which, though great, is sadly full of the kind of punters you'd never get tired of slapping. So it's hardly surprising that the Boxwood announcement has been met with some anticipation. It sounded like a real gap-inthemarket job.

I was especially looking forward to the London appearance of the genuine gourmet burger. Manhattan's been going la-la over versions stuffed with foie gras or made with aged Kobe beef and I feel we've been deprived. Especially when Ramsay waxes lyrical about a creation he describes as 'fore-rib burger with fried quail's eggs, cooked in goose fat with a sliver of foie gras on top just to keep my vegetarian critics on their toes'. Sounds like my idea of heaven, so I was deeply disappointed to find not a trace of it on the menu.

Still, there's some good stuff. And prices are, for Ramsay, a steal: starters from £4.50, mains from £11.50. Apart from sweet things - like sugared doughnuts - the menu is hardly your average cafè fare; instead, it bristles with the likes of spider crab, courgette flowers and Dorset blue soft-shelled lobster.

What we ate was great, far better than you'd expect in this kind of heaving environment. My asparagus, pea and leek tart was a paradigm of spring-like flavours: trembly, eggy custard holding fragrantly fresh vegetables in a base of the shortest, crumbliest pastry. Partnered with a tender mesclun salad, it was ace. My date's smoked salmon and sevruga caviar croque monsieur was a curiosity, bread too one-step-up-from-Mother's-Pride-y and filling too salty for my taste, but she loved it.

Mains were surprisingly dense and hearty - putting paid to notions of knickerbocker glories. Roast loin of suckling pig featured spot-on crackling, melting meat with a welljudged mustard sauce and roast potatoes. Both this, and my lamb, showed definite evidence of wellbred, well-fed animals. The lamb - new season's, with carrots and squidgey, delightfully stodgy dumplings - was braised in a heavy vinous gravy until it fell apart at the touch of a fork. Comfortingly fabulous, if a bit wintry.

I get the distinct impression, though, that informality doesn't come easily to Ramsay. There's still a clenched atmosphere among the staff, many of whom are ex-Vong and probably unnerved by their new boss. (The exception being an affably rotund sommelier who makes me think that his shape should be mandatory in restaurants instead of the more conventional stick-insect.) Ramsay's making his presence felt - God knows how he manages to do PAs at all his enterprises - nearly knocking me over on my way to the ladies. He's a b-i-g bloke and even his way of stalking about communicates barely contained rage. No wonder people are intimidated by him.

Nor did I warm to the look of the place: rather than buzzy and branchè, its size, subterranean location and sombrely brown appurtenances made it seem gloomy and rather corporate. If Ramsay really wants to do the cool Manhattan thang, I've got one piece of advice: lighten up.

Boxwood Cafe
Wilton Place, London, SW1X 7RL