Spookily satisfying

You know those strange, disturbed dreams when you wake up and find yourself face down on the pillow? That's a sensation spookily similar to eating at Le Cercle.

This subterranean space initially looks like a simple square. But then you spot shadowy outlines behind the pale, billowing drapes that surround the room, giving it the air of a Hollywood chapel of rest.

People are eating in what look like trenches behind the main room, or on raised booths, their identities hidden by yards of the ethereal fabric.

There's a greyish tinge to the light that drains faces of contour and vivacity (pointed out to me most gleefully by my date, clearly blissfully unaware of his own recently exhumed look). Given that the mean age of the Chelsea-wealthy customers on the night we visited was somewhere between facelift and Zimmer, this is not what you'd call a great idea. It's all very odd.

Le Cercle is the baby sibling of Club Gascon in Smithfield, a polished, successful (Michelin-starred) spot specialising in the cuisine of South-West France, in particular 101 ways with foie gras. Here, as at Club Gascon, you can order numerous tapas-sized dishes; they're listed under headings such as vegetal (vegetarian), marin (fish), and terroirs (traditional, regional dishes). Prices are mostly around the fiver mark, apart from the section called 'plaisirs' where you'll find the real luxury ingredients.

The three of us ordered 14 dishes, a reasonable bit of menu bashing. Some were splendid, some OK and others, like our surroundings, downright weird.

From the vegetal, we chose tiny, almost sweet basil-scented ravioli (ravioli de romans) with a 'parfum de cËpes', which translated as a musky, featherlight foam. Foamy, too, and served in a cup like a coffee-less cappuccino, was an emulsion of asparagus with a weeny, frittata-ish cake of spring vegetables. Both these dishes were ace: pairing fresh, springtime flavours with clever technique.

Fermier (meat) next: home-cured duck magret was silky and pungent; a pie of black pudding was squidgy rather than the promised crispy - the cloyingly rich black pudding oozed rather unpleasantly, grey like our faces in the draining light.

From terroirs, the braised beef cheek featured fabulous meat, its typical sponginess given lightness from long, slow cooking but beaten about the chops by an over-reduced vinous gravy. The navarin of lamb suffered from the same treatment.

Andouillette, that pallid sausage of innards, was a fat, funky-smelling beast of admirable superiority.