Pretentious pit stop

There have been times when I've thoroughly enjoyed restaurants - such as Destino and Number 10 - where the food hasn't been that marvellous.

So shoot me. And sometimes the reverse is true. When it comes to what you want from a restaurant, the food - never mind what the odd maniacal foodie tries to bore me to death with - is not the whole story.

The Soho Hotel has been carved from a former NCP car park (perhaps that's the reason for the cheesy Refuel monicker). Although Firmdale Hotels - of Covent Garden and Charlotte Street Hotels fame - have lavished giant quantities of loot on the place, it still has a clunky, concrete-y feel. Inside, no amount of massive, self-satisfied cat sculptures or vivid bar murals (looking like a toddler's car-and-road play mat) could disguise what felt like the Nottingham branch of Ibis designed by a hormonal interior decorator. Alan Partridge would love it.

I used to work in Soho and Refuel's punters reminded me why I don't miss it. Squawking at each other or into their mobiles, they appear to require an inflated decibel count to confirm their existences. And, since the bar encroaches uncomfortably on to the restaurant, we're talking in your face.

They fell into three recognisable camps: streaked and straightened PR girlies, self-consciously moody ad agency creatives or bloated ad agency suits. This expense account clientele might have something to do with the histrionic pricing: starters average £11, mains £18 (a veal cutlet with a bunch of tomfoolery comes in at £26); side orders such as rosemary roasted potatoes are a piss-taking £5.

Staff are unnervingly, TGI Friday-friendly - and rather arch. A dish was whipped from under the date's fag before he could tip his ash into it. 'That's the oil ramekin,' we were told, with a subliminal 'tut'. The menu sank my heart. With its mizuna and cardamom and enoki mushrooms and linguini, its harissa and bocconcini and girolles, it clearly adheres to the school of fusion, an oddly last-century concept for such a high-concept gaff.

But once I got over the ennui and ordered, the cooking from Robin Read (ex-head chef of Mirabelle) was good enough to rouse me from my dispirited slump.

'Pan-roasted' scallops - oh, please, wasn't pan-fried bad enough? - was a surprisingly generous plateful: four fat shellfish, sliced through their toasty surfaces, each topped with a crispy mini-floret of cauliflower and dressed with caramel and cardamom. The whole arrangement was well-executed, if a little cloying. But a silky skein of home-made linguini, bathed in a light, creamy broth laced with heady amounts of saffron and studded with gloriously fresh, plump mussels, was just perfect (at £11.50 for a teeny starter portion, so it should be).

I loved red leg partridge, a smoky, rich-tasting bird perfectly complemented by the butchness of braised cavolo nero ('black' cabbage) and its wodge of Romanstyle semolina gnocchi (actually, you should forgive the pomposity - gnocco, singular; there was only one of it). 'Toro' steak of blue fin tuna tasted good, seared outside, raw within, but it lacked the luxurious, melting succulence ('toro' means 'melt') of the best fatty tuna belly; the sour saltiness of Umeboshi plums was a clever foil.

But I won't be going back to Refuel, no matter how sterling the talent in the kitchen. Sorry. If I'm going to drop £80 a head, as we effortlessly did, I can think of far sexier environments in which to do so. However, if you're on a noquestionsasked expense account and have out-of-town clients to schmooze up, this could be just the ticket.

The Soho Hotel, 4 Richmond Mews (Richmond Buildings) W1.

Tel: 020 7559 3000. Tube: Tottenham Court Road

Refuel
The Soho Hotel, 4 Richmond Mews, W1