The wine bottle tells no lies

The idea of a bar devoted exclusively to the wines of a country or a region is a promising one. If "leisure destinations" really must have "themes", then the sincere exploration of the food and drink of a place on earth is a theme with a backbone. Most bar and pub themes are about as authentic, and as enticing, as a Disneyland castle. London's "Australian" pubs, for example, are mostly famous for deafening music, an obsession with male sports and the over-consumption of gassy yellow beer. What we really need, by contrast, are authentic Australian wine bars to show off that country's superb range of small-producer wines, served with the intriguing Medit-Asian foods Australian chefs are experimenting with at present.

There is no nation on earth with quite as much intriguing diversity to offer wine drinkers as Italy, which was why I set off enthusiastically for Vino Bar, billed as "the new, modern Italian wine bar in the heart of Covent Garden". It's in a bright, white-and-lilac basement in the Central Market Buildings, filled with tiny tables for two, and decorated with white pebbles and spray-silvered foliage and flowers: cramped, but gently stylish. The Italian staff are relaxed, friendly and good-looking. The wine's awful.

One of the great things about Italians is their love of family and home. Strengths, though, can also be failings. What do I mean? You might expect somewhere called Vino Bar to stock wines from all over Italy; there are thousands of good ones to choose from. In fact, most of Vino Bar's disappointingly short list of 16 wines comes from a co-operative near Piacenza called the Viticoltori Arquatesi. Vino Bar is owned by the Ponti's group. Ponti's is owned by the Ispani family, who come from the Colli Piacentini in which the Viticoltori Arquatesi work. They're helping the folks out back home.

Shame, really: in principle I am solidly behind anyone trying to bring something genuinely different to our attention - and these wines are certainly that. They're all slightly sparkling, and some are semi-sweet. The Malvasia Secco demonstrates why this grape has a reputation for oxidising; it tastes like a light, musky cider. The Ortrugo is dryer and thinner: unripe and charmless. The only Bonarda available on the night I called was the sweet, Ribena-like Amabile version, so I had a glass of acidulous Barbera from the Viticoltori instead. By comparison with the best Piedmontese Barbera, it was unrecognisably thin and dilute. Even the Chianti, a 1999 from Ruffino, was disappointingly tenuous and slight (the price of each is £2.70 for what I assume is a 175ml glass). "All wines are of supreme quality," says the list. Sorry, no.

I had a celebratory table of Italian-speaking grandees next to me, beautifully dressed in check overcoats, elegant suits and white scarves, and not at all your typical wine-bar crowd. My suspicion, given that Ponti's was holding some sort of mysterious celebration in the Market that night, was that there might have been an owner or two among them. They drank Moet.

In order to reassure myself that wine bars can sell and profit from a wide range of wines which aren't merely unusual but also happen to be well-made, I made for The Crescent . This wine bar, owned and run by Hilary Gibbs of burgundy importer Domaine Direct in conjunction with energetic buyer, writer and broadcaster Matthew Jukes, has been open almost five years now.

Impressively, it still offers a superb range of 150 or so wines, every one annotated and described on the list, plus another 30 or so on the bin-end list and up to 25 by the glass. There's a short food menu which is available all day; they even serve eggs Benedict and croissants for a late breakfast (with coffee and chocolate if a bottle of Barolo before noon seems a bad idea).

When it first opened, it felt somewhat stark and austere; time, candlelight and quiet jazz have mellowed it. It's the only one of London's wine bars which, with its long hours, intelligent service, newspapers and neighbourliness, feels just a little like New York. The fact that it's attentively run by Canadian Norman Ellard with help from Australian Andrew Makeham adds to the international appeal.

What could I challenge them with? I know: Pinot Grigio. This grape variety is widely grown all over northern Italy, generally to produce rather a thin, raw white well adrift of the plump smoky succulence the best Alsace growers can give it.

Relief: the 1999 Borgo dei Vassalli version (at £4.25 per 175ml glass or £16.50 a bottle) showed up with drifting smoke across its bows, and plenty of chewy substance to its greengage fruit. The 1997 Rosso Conero Vigneto San Lorenzo from Umani Ronchi (£4.50 a glass; £17.50 a bottle) was just the kind of wine any serious Italian wine bar should think about stocking: scents of red flowers and dark spices, with lots of moist, sticky liquorice fleshing out its soft, ripe plum.