From an ambitious-sounding French menu, we didn't manage to order one fully-assured dish. What was described as a 'clafoutis' - a kind of dense, baked custard - of cod brought a hefty omelette stuffed with overcooked fish and inexplicably adorned with a petal of dried tomato skin. A limp potato pancake slumped over some venerable-tasting confit duck in our other starter. Mains were little better: a special of venison tasted good, but was a badly trimmed, sinewy piece of meat draped over a damp clump of fennel and chestnuts. Veal burgers (like a faggot with ideas above its station) came with a bunker of dry - almost astringent - purèed celeriac and 'dariole' - read stewed slice - of pear on top.