Running on empty

I don't understand you lot. London diners seem more than happy to wait for months or take out second mortgages for the Ivys and Ramsays of this burgh, but when we ate a perfectly delicious and reasonable meal in Shoreditch's recently opened South, we were the only customers in the place.

I don't know what it was that was turning people off - plenty of potential punters stopped to check out the gently priced menu outdoors while we were there, but nobody ventured in. Perhaps it's because they've gone for a look that's more Fulham branch of Pizza Express than corner of Curtain and Rivington (groovester epicentre and home of the dressdowngrunge ethic, doncha know). It has blond wood chairs, blond wood tables, an open stainless steel kitchen. The only striking decorations are a large mirror and a recess containing a very contrapuntal single vase with a single flower. All very minimal. Were the place buzzing, this might be a pleasing environment; as it was, we half expected to see the tumbleweed billow across the blond wood floor.

It comes across as a labour of love, a one-off from an individual. And that's what it turns out to be. Sole owner Cathy Boulton has worked in endless high-profile joints, from early days as hat-check girl at Peppermint Park (talk about blast from the past!) to Putney Bridge, River Cafè, Isola. Finally, she reckoned it was time to do the gig for herself. After roughly 20 years in the trade, she should certainly know her stuff. And it appears she does.

The menu is short and resolutely rustic French. There's nothing haute about South's aspirations: the dishes are simple and appealing. A starter of black pudding with apples was a gorgeous dish: the pudding was like savoury, fondant chocolate - rich and creamy; it collapsed on to the tart, diced apples to make addictive sweetsour mouthfuls. Charcuterie was an intelligently sourced plateful, a selection of various saucissons - the sweet, the nutty and the pungent - with Bayonne ham and sharp little pickles.

I had been late, so my date had grumpily tucked in to too much of the splendid walnut bread and complained about dented hunger: she still managed to demolish an entire chestnut and leek pie - not the lightest of dishes. It had a delightfully hand-knitted quality, slightly misshapen; the pastry a heavenly mix of flake and squidge and toasty bits while the filling avoided that worthy vegetarian trap and tasted light and zingy - possibly due to the dots of grain mustard. My sweet, pearly scallops were paid great service by their 'beurre fondue' sauce and bed of bitter, lightly caramelised endive.

Despite the chill wind of isolation, we'd enjoyed the food so much we went for puddings. Lush, plump figs in red wine for the not-hungry one and a sliver of dense, toffee-sweet nut tart for me. Both came with thick crëme fraiche; both were excellent. The pastry on the tart, in particular, was an assured piece of work.

And the staff? Helpful and charming, with just the right combination of informality and efficiency. Our bill came to about £35 a head with wine, water and tip. So what's not to like? Maybe if they grunged the place up a touch to keep it in line with its Shoreditch context, or dimmed the rather intimidating lighting, or - I don't know - put some pictures on the walls, it might seem a little more welcoming. Or maybe it just needs to be full of people enjoying the food: that should do the trick. Is anyone out there paying attention?