Stuck in 1985

There is no way that Kicca could be anything other than Italian: the acres of black lacquer laced with shocking pink, the mirrored surfaces and arty-porno paintings of orchids. It's a riot of expensively dodgy taste.

And, in case you're not sufficiently dazzled by your surroundings, there's a squad of snakehipped, come-to-bed-eyed boys to pander to your every eye-candy desiring whim.

One brings the peppermill (of course), another follows with the Parmesan, a new cohort wields the corkscrew. A computer screen bears the screensaver 'Viva la Figa' (google it - it's rude). It's terrific, trashy fun.

So it's a shame that the menu is so predictably pedestrian: fish soup, vitello tonnato, bresaola with Parmesan, ossobuco - is it 1985?

Cooking is competent but unexciting - the fish soup, though crammed with prawns, mussels and a multitude of fish, was underpowered; maltagliati ('badly cut' small, flat sheets of pasta) came with a pesto sauce that could have come straight from Sainsbury's.

Portions are un-South Ken enormous: surely the lithe lovelies of this burgh would have been defeated by the mammoth, plate-lapping proportions of my cotoletta alla Milanese. If not its size, then surely by the breaded veal's resemblance to a deep-fried beer mat. Tuna, plainly grilled, was served raw inside without a warning.

Smaller portions and smaller prices (with a touch of modernity) might make this a fun destination. Otherwise, it's little more than a curiosity.

Kicca
Draycott Avenue, London, SW3 3AD