Revive la France!

It is ghoulish, admittedly, but when the restaurant guides plop on to my doormat, the first section I flick to is the recently demised.

This tragic list of eateries, with its miasma of faded successes, misguided ideas and broken dreams is compulsive - and thought-provoking.

There is no mystery surrounding the death of diabolical, overblown joints such as Chintamani or cynical pieces of expensive nonsense such as Cedar Lounge but it's really sad to see hard-working locals such as North London's much-loved Soulard closing down.

The news that Soho institution Pollo, scene of so many impoverished romantic encounters it should have been awarded charitable status, has shimmied off to cheap trattoria heaven while the likes of the ludicrous Cipriani is still packing them in makes my eyes well up.

And it makes me fret: have the sweet young dudes who run Tooks in Cursitor Street tarted up their premises so we shallow urbanites will flock there and try the fantastic food? I know, I know: I should get a life.

I was sad, too, when I heard of the closure of Maquis. I liked the place, enjoyed its pared-down decor and its championing of that derided treat, the fondue.

It seemed to be pushing all the right buttons: sensible pricing, good surroundings, interesting menu and accomplished cooking under the aegis of Moro's Sam Clark.

But, for some inexplicable reason, it didn't fire the punters' imagination - and it's not like this area is supercharged with excellent places to eat - so it closed down.

Fast forward to the same premises today - the newly opened Chez Kristof. It is a Tuesday evening and it's rammed with youngish, affluent-looking trade.

We are sat so close to our next-door neighbours that we're inhaling their pheromones. Staff are swamped with clamouring customers. This has success tattooed over it. So what's its secret? Frankly, I have no idea.