Spoilt for choice

I wasn't looking forward to Refettorio. For one thing, it's in a hotel called the Crowne Plaza, and it's run by a subdivision of a company called Aramark, which offers 'food service solutions' and whose other London outlet rejoices in the ultra-cheesy moniker Nippon Tuk. Doesn't exactly sound like the work of a poetic, passionate, culinary soul, does it?

I needn't have worried. It comes under the aegis of the marvellous Giorgio Locatelli (with ex-Locanda Locatelli chef Pasquale Amico at the helm) and it's fab. The hotel itself is glossy and striking, a contrast between imposing old-London exterior and sleek, stylish, modern interior. Refettorio is divided into two parts, one slightly raucous and bustling (Convivium, apparently), with a big communal table - referencing the refectory of the name - and bar stools; the other darker, quieter and more formal. The same menu is served in both.

The decor is a bit last century: all dark wood, huge steel and glass fridges and low-hanging light fittings which tend to obscure the staff. Shame, because this bunch - authentically Italian and divertingly charming (one even called me 'signora bella' without a trace of irony) - were well worth a better look.

As is the deceptively long menu. It's actually quite simple, with an appealing collection of pastas, salads, sottaceti (pickled vegetables), fritti (fried things) and main courses. The length comes from an astonishing list of Italian cheeses, hams and salami. That's what's contained in those fridges - one of the best selections I've encountered, from fine-ground salami to haunches of wild boar complete with fur. It's an almost pornographically stimulating display of protein.

You can order these as assemblies: cheeses from the Alps or salami from Tuscany, for example; or do what we did and just run riot.

We ended up with guanciale (a Tuscan pig's cheek speciality) - sweet, silky white fat streaked with pink meat; fennel-spiked finocchiona sausage, also from Tuscany; intense smoked speck di anatra (duck ham); and a feral-tasting prosciutto di cinghiale from the furry wild boar haunch. These were served on little wooden blocks and were both in immaculate condition and perfectly cut: whisper-thin for the salami, rough-hewn for the speck.

With them came bread. Gorgeous bread: twig-like Parmesan grissini; tomato bread; olive bread; farinata, that splendidly nutty chickpea pancake from Liguria; and a soft loaf studded - liberally - with whole cloves of gooey, caramelly, slow-roasted garlic. Like a child, I needed somebody to stop me eating it before I ruined my appetite.

This was such a good opener that further courses had their work cut out. Quail risotto was good: depth of flavour and the right ratio of gloop to bite in the rice. Massive, tooth-resistant pipes of eggless paccheri pasta came with crumbly Italian sausage and al dente broccoli. These, and a shared 'fritto misto' (traditionally a big dish of deep-fried, mixed fish seafood dependent on the catch of the day but here translated as calamari and what appeared to be frozen prawns) suffered by comparison, although the frying was exemplary. A tiramisu was frothily insubstantial.

But I'd go back to really explore the menu or have a perfectly lovely meal of breads, cheeses and sausages - this sounds like my desert island choice - without even straying into main course territory. (Although I do worry slightly about maintaining the condition of such a wide range of produce if there isn't a rapid turnover in ordering.)

I should have realised that perfectionist Locatelli wouldn't have put his name to anything less than first rate. After all, Locanda Locatelli is the only restaurant, to my recollection, we've ever happily awarded the full five stars. Refettorio should be a model to any chef looking to spread their wings or do the diffusion thing: employ the right staff, use the finest ingredients, make people feel really welcome, and don't stiff them on the bill. Now, that's not too difficult, is it?