Tasteless beyond belief

I got as far as putting the one star at the top here and then came to a sticky, blank-screened halt. Where to start? How to get into a review of a place that left me, for once, as speechless as if my tongue had fused to the top of my mouth? Something that my starter, the remarkable 'pan-fried foie gras, rhubarb tarte tatin with mizuna and dandelion salad', threatened to do for real.

So I've had the fortifying gin. I can now return to Vanilla's entrance, in the unbuzzy, serviced offices part of Fitzrovia, lurking under the shadow of the Telecom Tower. Maybe the owners are aiming for discreet; what we get is verging on seedy. You're required to press a buzzer and announce yourself; I'm thinking maybe a shebeen or the lair of a lovely young model, not a 'luxurious new restaurant and bar that's set to take the capital by storm'.

So you're in. Only the presence of some in-yer-face silver and black fake flock - I think it had a brief Elle Deco moment round about Tuesday, March 11 2005 - indicates where you should go. Down, into what was clearly, until recently, another serviced office.

But crikey, have they gone to town! Recently, in Belgravia's Olivomare, the blinding white decor made me think about dining inside a Tic Tac. Here, the white-on-white effect comes on more like the surgery of an enthusiastically transvestite dentist. It's camp. And at the same time, it's clinical. Open wide!

First the bar: more flock, mirrored this time, and expanses of screaming white. Walls, ceiling, furniture - all chalky as a bad brie. Each table is graced by a spiral 'crystal' chandelier. 'Plastic,' hisses the accomplice, 'Urban Outfitters.' Don't know whether she was right or not - biting the light fittings is beyond the call of duty - but they certainly don't smack of Swarovski. An LED lighting set-up means that there's a constantlychanging tint over the drinks dispensing area which makes the (delightful) bar staff look in turn Martian, pre-coronary or menopausal.

Through to the restaurant. We pass a kitchen brigade beavering away in a small kitchen seen via cut-outs in the walls. Yep, it takes a lot of effort to come up with dishes such as 'carrot and bergamot veloutÈ with vanilla foam and herbs muffin' [sic] or that rhubarb/foie gras number. The dining room is an ugly, long, thin galley shape which they've cleverly disguised by - well, no they haven't, actually. Here, the silver-black wallpaper has been allowed full and terrifying reign, making an awkward room seem even more claustrophobic. Black chairs and banquettes, black light fittings, mirrored walls, white napery; the only touch of colour comes from the bright red fire extinguisher.

As we are the only people in the room for some time, our waiter clearly feels the need to justify his existence. He flirts and flutters like a desperate man; 'If he touches me once more,' says the pal, 'I will lamp him with that extinguisher.' Perhaps he's trying to deflect our attention from the food.

Look, I've nothing against a bit of menu lunacy, if it comes off. And, for the record, I don't think that rhubarb and foie gras are mutually incompatible: rich fatty meat, sharp fruity tartness, works for me. Except it

doesn't. The foie is greasy, the pastry is greasy, heck, even the rhubarb is greasy. There's tooth-clamping toffee somewhere. And the whole dish is an unappetising stewed-tea brown.

The 'herbs muffin'? Eep. Something indeterminately doughy with a whiff of scented drawer liner and some cuckoo spit. Apologies, but I'm not enjoying this any more than you are.

Our main courses read entirely differently - one comes with 'summer vegetables', one with 'vegetable julienne'; in the event, both 'caramelised guinea fowl' and leaden 'fontina and butternut squash tortellini' come on top of a compost heap of spaghetti-ed vegetables that taste of elderly bean sprout. In fairness, the guinea fowl has been cooked really well; it retains its flavour against an onslaught of vaguely Thai curry sauce ('lemon thyme coconut milk') and its accompanying prawns - I know! - are good quality.