Room for improvement

Staggering into the dimly opulent interior of The Grill Room at the Cafè Royal from the windchilled, damp and sale-blasted trauma of Regent Street delivers something of a mini culture shock. Here, all is calm and serene. It's truly gorgeous in the old fashioned sense of the word: a windowless room draped in heavy, carnal-looking red, decked with gilt, twinkling mirrors and stately carvings. Garlands, oil-painted panels, etched glass and mermaid-like art nouveau maidens crowd every nook and cranny. Staff are quietly formal, taking on an air of being lofty retainers rather than jobbing waiters. It's the sort of place you want to come on a winter's day, wrapped in furs, looking mysterious, for an assignation with someone else's spouse.

Once you acclimatise, though, you start to discern shabbiness under the luxury. The velvet of the banquettes and bolsters is slightly worn; the chairs look like they've come in a job lot from a provincial banqueting suite. With a glass of excellent, chilled Chablis down my neck, I decided I liked this slightly worn decadence - it was like a once glorious dowager bravely eschewing the Botox but still piling on the slap.

Since its launch in 1865, The Grill Room has had a stellar history: luminaries from the likes of Oscar Wilde and his Bosie to Elizabeth Taylor and Cary Grant have passed through its doors. But it's been closed to the public for a number of years, playing host only to private parties.

Now, with Andy Campbell - formerly of establishments as varied as Clarke's and Zilli Fish - as executive chef, it has re-opened to a new generation of diners. Campbell's approach is to offer seasonal dishes focusing on 'the very best British ingredients'. The menu when we visited was appropriately robust and wintry; earthy, even. But it wasn't particularly inspiring or dynamically executed. That's not to say the food was bad, it just didn't have the dazzle that the room merited.

A salad rammed with breakfasty treats - black pudding, pancetta, poached egg - from the set lunch menu was excellent; a nice collision between frilly leaves, spiky dressing and porky substance. But my starter, billed as venison carpaccio with marinated vegetables, disappointed. The venison appeared to be cured - bresaola rather than raw carpaccio - and the minuscule vegetables tasted as though they'd come from a preserving jar.

Again, my main course of fish, chips and mushy peas (I know, but I can't resist this on a dismal day) was a let down. The 'Pont Neufs' chips (fat and square), presented Jenga fashion, were soggy; the fish was floury with damp beer batter; the 'mushy peas' were petit pois bashed with mint into a travesty of their namesake. The other main course was better: tender, thick slices of roast loin of pork with good mashed potatoes laced with caramelised apples. But no crackling? A musky, densely flavoured compote of winter fruits came with a surprisingly sensational scoop of saffron ice-cream.

Other choices on the menu continue the back-to-basics theme: Norfolk Horn saddle of lamb with carrots and Dauphinoise turnips; a 'Scottish Breakfast' featuring everything from beef slice to white pudding and potato pancake; a choice of steamed treacle pud, baked jam roly poly or spotted dick, all with custard. Normally I find this kind of thing a real turn-on, but in these rococo surroundings I longed for more sybaritic food: Belle Epoque-style saucings and reductions and indulgent ingredients (although, to be fair, you can have lobster thermidor).

But what we ate, though decent in a neighbourhood gastro-pubby way - and not wildly expensive at about £35 a head - seemed a bit like the culinary equivalent of going to the Royal Opera House for a rousing rendition of Knees Up Mother Brown.

The Grill Room at the Cafe Royal
68 Regent Street, W1B 5EL