Out of L's kitchen

Normally, I'm happily spewing out bile or tripping myself up with over-enthusiastic adjectives like a Sugar-pleasing Apprentice salesperson. But all I got from my visit to L-Restaurant And Bar (great name, huh?) was an overwhelming sense of pointlessness.

I have no idea what this Kensington newcomer is trying to achieve. Is it, like the sterling 11 Abingdon Road opposite, trying to be a great neighbourhood hangout for the area's wealthy natives? It seems too precious, too poncified to be the sort of place you pile into when you can't be bothered cooking.

Or is it aiming for some kind of destination status? Surely not: it's simply not special enough to go more than a spike-heeled stagger out of your way.

On a sunny lunchtime, the place was utterly deserted apart from one other table on which sat a glowering chap I later realised was owner Eddy Lim. I realised this because, in the clear absence of anything better to do, his post-prandial amusement seemed to consist of berating his rather lovely staff.

The press info I received about L- tells us that Eddy has 'been responsible for some of London's most talked-about restaurants including Tai Pan, Pier 31 and Deals Group'.

Talked about by whom? If I ever go on Mastermind, my specialist subject will be London restaurants and I have never heard of any of 'em. Oh, hang on: I vaguely remember Deals - kinda Garfunkel's with notions of It-dom - but not with any affection.

We're also told that the menu is 'modern Iberian'. Chef Oskar Reboredo hails from that hotbed of culinary machismo and whizzkiddery, the Basque Country, but on the strength of what we ate, I think he may have been forced to leave in a hail of pitchforks.

Our meal, from the à la carte, was neither robustly authentic nor thrillingly innovative. It was, like I said, pointless.

On top of some pallidly undercooked scallops sat a buttercup yellow goo - mango, boiled with sugar into some kind of curd, that had no business being on top of a mollusc. Guacamole, too, added to the cacophony.

Hand-carved jamón of glorious quality - 'Ibérico de Bellota', from acorn-fed pigs - arrived as mostly fat (which I like, but I like the pink, melting flesh too) with some damp-flannelly tomato-rubbed bread. We quite liked the flash-seared foie gras with a frilly-fried duck's egg and a reduction of port and balsamic vinegar. But not enough to get excited.