Terrible name, quality food

Nico Ladenis used to be a highly controversial figure on the London culinary circuit of the Eighties. While Marco Pierre White was still perfecting his moody, hot-tempered, 'cookery is the new rock 'n' roll' style of behaviour, Ladenis was hurling people out of his restaurant with a style that matched Peter Langan's histrionics. And he has not lost his touch: recently he sent back all three of the Michelin stars he'd won for the excellent Chez Nico at the Grosvenor House Hotel.

Nico Ladenis comes across as a touchy chap and I don't think he takes kindly to full and frank opinions. Thus whenever any member of restaurant staff asks what I think of what I am eating, I assume an expression of joy and proclaim that, whatever it may be, it is possibly the finest thing that I have ever eaten.

Happily, the food at Incognico is not inedible junk. The name, however, is a different matter. Making such a pun on one's name smacks of egotism mixed with an irretrievably suburban sense of 'humour'.

Incognico is the sort of place that we have seen a lot of lately: a diffusion restaurant opened under the aegis of a famous chef and decorated by David Collins. But then name me a London restaurant that is not decorated by David Collins.

Incognico is a classic piece of Collins: quirky little lights that look like they have been made of Japanese chain mail, the inevitable panels of reflective glass, a metal-effect ceiling, nice comfy leather chairs and a very agreeable downstairs bar that is faintly Art Deco. As my friend the Count settled into his faintly Victorian, upholstered chair, he remarked what a delight it was to sit in a comfortable chair for once. I have to agree.

Having got the first hurdle out of the way and seated the Count, I began to read aloud to him from the menu. These days he is so long-sighted that it would have required the menu to be positioned at the far end of Shaftesbury Avenue for him to be able to decipher its plain sans serif typeface.

In between telling me about the rival merits of parties given by the various royal and aristocratic houses of Germany, he indicated that he fancied salt cod in batter with aioli. I could not resist the grilled baby Dover sole with tartare sauce. The idea of a baby one perfectly grilled, trimmed, served up with a little pot of delicious sauce tartare and a couple of lemon wedges strikes me as a brilliant starter.

After that it was on to the skate. It was perfectly good. The Count munched contentedly on a bit of cod. I have to add that the little pot of cauliflower au gratin we ordered as an accompaniment was a miniature triumph - my only cavil being that the cheese crust came off rather like the skin of a rice pudding. I would have preferred it not to detach itself from the pot all at once, but nevertheless I recommend it.

The thin apple tart with caramel sauce seemed to have been hewn from one of those large trays of tart that adorn the counters of French patisseries, which I suppose was the idea. It was fine. The kitchen here seems to work harmoniously and I am not surprised: one can look into the food preparation area through the glass wall in the bar downstairs and it is the acme of luxury. There is even a colour telly, so that those preparing dinner for the pre-theatre crowd do not have to miss EastEnders.

This is not food that dazzles, I do not think it is intended to be. I believe it is merely meant to be the kind of properly prepared food that people actually like to eat. Certainly my fellow diners were not the starry lot that one sees just across the road at The Ivy, nor were they the slavish sort of foodies you find at every new restaurant. I presume that some of them, especially the table of men who had all removed their jackets, were pillars of the local business community. And others were people up from Weybridge for a day's shopping, or just dainty little old ladies who had given cook the night off, like the one in the Chanel suit, her platinum hair gathered with a large velvet bow at the back of her head.