The boy done good

It's every working grunt's dream. You're the beleaguered wage slave, muttering about management and how you could do it all so much better. 'One day,' you think, 'I'll come back with fistfuls of cash and buy the place from under their noses.'

Richard Corrigan must be punching the air with elation, because he's done just that. Not long after the Irishman arrived in London, he worked in Bentley's as a jobbing chef. Now he's back and his name is over the door. What complete bliss for him. And it's not a million miles off complete bliss for us, either.

A Piccadilly feature since forever, Bentley's used to be a fusty, maledominated joint, peopled by pillars of the establishment sneering over snifters at the few benighted tourists who had managed to find their way to this atmospheric little side street.

Then it fell into full-on touristfleecing disrepute, a fossil of badly cooked, old school food and contemptuous service. No capital groover worth their salt dreamt of darkening its doors.

But Corrigan - of Michelin-awardwinning Lindsay House fame (we won't mention BBC2's cringeworthy Full On Food, where he and Heston Blumenthal provide the show's only bearable bits) - is a clever chap. He's kept the best bits, the air of masculine clubbiness (although the designer basks in the ultra frou-frou moniker of Bambi Goodhew) but has burnished the dècor, staff and menus into retro/contemporary loveliness.

When we visited, Corrigan was holding court downstairs behind the glamorous oyster bar. Unlike other name chefs, his presence seems to create jollity rather than intimidation. But that doesn't detract from the absolute seriousness of the kitchen.

The menu reeks of intelligently sourced produce - and a touch of testosterone. The only thing that didn't thrill was a sissy starter of smoked haddock carpaccio with piperade (not the earthy provencale stew, rather some personality-free ribbons of roast pepper). This was altogether too weak and chilly, only saved from wallflower status by some gorgeous home-made soda bread.

Everything else, though, was stonking. Thick tubes of al dente 'macaroni' (rigatoni, in fact) were doused in a bisquey cream sauce and jostled with the best langoustines I've had since Scotland. Fat, sweet and without a trace of flouriness.

Then, despite Bentley's piscine heritage, we went for meat. A mixed grill of trencherman proportions for the date, bristling with really fine flesh: a crumbly, almost haggis-y venison, Cumberland sausage, perky little kidney, liver and luscious lollipops of lamb. This was dinner as machismo.

My Elwy Valley lamb pudding was a joy: long-cooked lamb melting into a suet crust of overwhelming squidginess, dots of carrot providing a token stab at the Government's recommended Five A Day.