Outshone by the stars

We're fizzing with 'Is it' questions. Is it Michael Gambon? Is it that chap who played the baddie in Casino Royale? Is it the Chemical Brothers? And who's that chap who seems to know everyone?

Why, it's Rowley Leigh, formerly the brains behind seminal Kensington Place and now co-boss with Charlie McVeigh, from Woody's, of this new mega-restaurant. They're a massively well-connected duo: within seconds of opening, the place seems to have scooped up every credible famous person in town and plonked them in the unlikely environs of the former Maccy D's in Whiteleys shopping mall.

We're sat in what shallow old me worries is Siberia: rather too handy for front desk and lavs. Turns out it's the plum position: you can check out every new arrival as frankly as an Italian flaneur. Oh, I do enjoy a good gawp.

Le Café Anglais is huge - from where we're sitting, we can only just see the far end of the handsome, art deco-inspired room designed by Stiff + Trevillion, the designers behind celebrity canteen St Alban. There are humungous, leaded windows framed with theatrical red drapes. Etched and stained glass reference yet another celeb magnet, The Ivy, and cushions you from the retail mundanity outside. In fact, the whole effect is a little like The Ivy and Quaglino's bastard child. And, since bookings are already as hard to get as a Nintendo Wii, it looks like it's going to emulate their success.

The place is rammed with tables of six and eight; had we come here à deux, we'd have felt like Billy no-mates. It's also fiercely noisy, just like Kensington Place, as any place bristling with luvvies will inevitably be. I have to perch on the edge of my eau de nil leather banquette to hear any conversation; one pal rolls up his menu like an ear trumpet.

The banquette, though undeniably lovely, is so low that the ear trumpet wielder seems to disappear into its depths, turning into Little Britain's version of Dennis Waterman.

He politely asks for a cushion. The waiter responds hopefully.

Down one side runs the open kitchen, including a fiery rotisserie belching out roasts of chicken, goose, partridge, woodcock. The artless simplicity of the clever menu - there's little in the way of culinary showing off - owes more to Messrs Corbin and King (of The Wolseley) and, yes, even Conran with their ultra-brasserie ethic than the more formal Kensington Place.

We nibble at hors d'oeuvres and sip on prosecco while perusing the menu. Hors d'oeuvres: how fabulous - combined with the 1930s ocean liner look, they make us feel like we're dining on the Titanic. They're good, too: fantastic, smoky, teriyaki-soused mackerel with ribbons of vinegary cucumber; salsify fritters in light, crisp batter with creamy mayonnaise; a wibbly Parmesan custard - like savoury crème brulée - with soldiers of anchovy toast. It's an inspired excuse for a greedy extra course.

Starters: I like butch corned beef hash, crowned with poached egg and mustard sauce; the grainy pecorino and black pepper in an accurately cooked Roman favourite, spaghetti cacio e pepe; a large plate laden with velvety slices of excellent Parma ham with spiced damsons. Boudin of pike - creamy, blowsy sausage of subtle fish mousse spiked with little chunks of scallop and prawn in a rich buttery sauce - is heavenly.

But pleasures wane with main courses. I ask for another starter because the promised roast goose with apple sauce has just sold out. Gnocchi - actually a single Roman-style polenta gnocco, to be pedantic - with overcooked chicken livers and a not entirely welcome free gift of chicken hearts is no consolation. Hake arrives as an intimidatingly massive gigot, like a bunched fist, on a bed of frazzled witloof endive. Beef is rosy and decent, but an ungenerous couple of slices mean we really need the side dishes - at up to £4.50 a pop for some dense, stodgy pommes Anna - to make a meal of it.