The chore of Babylon

It says on the menu that it is French Onion Soup with Welsh Rarebit Croutons. I don't think so. It looks like nothing I've ever encountered, a bowlful of gloopy beigeness that seems to move at the touch of a spoon with some kind of blubbery inner life. The croutons are damp, bendy cheese on toast. The soup's taste is beyond extraordinary. It's like someone has puréed a bunch of Krispy Kreme doughnuts with the boiled onion scrapings off a Wimpy burger. I promise you, I am not exaggerating for effect.

Normally I can eat almost anything, but this offering, courtesy of the new Shoreditch outpost of Beach Blanket Babylon, defeats me. I venture another sip but it's just as repellent; I give up. Our handsome, saturnine and generally unfriendly waiter seems to suffer a moment's interior dialogue before capitulating to professionalism. Did I not like it? No s***, Sherlock.

He returns from the kitchen to tell me that: 'Chef says it's supposed to taste like that.' Three cheers for that old canard, a personal favourite along with 'that's the way we do it here' and 'has madam ever eaten [insert name of rubbish dish] before?'

I ask him, as a small favour, to go find the pot and have a soupçon for himself. I'm not angling for a fight or a refund, just some solidarity. He comes back, shaking his head in wonder, as gobsmacked as I am. 'I'm not supposed to do this,' he whispers, offering me a compensatory cocktail from the bar which I foolishly accept. It's every bit as vile as the soup, tasting as though it's been spiked with American Cream Soda. In a straight-up vodkatini?

I can't say that the rest of the food is every bit as bad because that would be quite an achievement. A burger with foie gras isn't deadly, but there is no evidence of the promised luxury liver. Perhaps it's there, but the overcooked meat isn't allowing it a look-in. Chips are decent enough.

Otherwise, it's all pretty duff: the poor vegetarian has to make do with a few chunks of vegetable including what looks like straight-from-the-packet carrot batons and some soggy Brussels in a vaguely cheesy - and, yes, sweet - sauce with dod of pastry lobbed on top. The dressing on a salad tastes like cheap scent. What is it with the vanilla obsession? Especially in a joint that goes all out to look as decadent as it possibly can?

Sure, it looks good: dark, gilded and suggestively glittery, populated by staff who look like resting models. Which, given their dubious skills, is probably about right. Downstairs is a club and drinking den. Coming soon are a private members' lounge and roof terrace adorned with palm trees and fountains where open-air films will be shown.

Even I make the mistake of thinking it all sounds rather fabulous until I remember that these new facilities are just going to offer even more opportunities to be sidelined and badly served.

Think I'm being unreasonable? Not really; I've a history of dashed expectations with Beach Blanket Babylon. Many years ago, when I first landed in London, I thought the original Notting Hill branch (named after a famously camp San Franciscan musical revue) was quite simply the most glamorous place I'd ever seen: the open fire contained in the gaping, sculpted stone mouth; the dinky little wrought iron chairs with jewel-coloured velvet cushions; the throng of impossibly gorgeous people.

But even then I wasn't daft enough to think the food in the atmospheric, dungeon-meets-Gaudí restaurant was any good - nor the 'we're doing you a favour' service.