There's no poetry at Stanza

Sometimes my restaurant karma simply deserts me. I really wanted to tell you about the Papine Jerk Centre (yes, really: it's a tribute to the original in Jamaica) in Battersea, the first restaurant from Levi Roots, the engaging chap who scored big on Dragons' Den with his Reggae Reggae Sauce.

So I trooped off with a pal, a massive jerk chicken and curried goat fan, whose birthday it was. Gussied up to the eyeballs, we landed in the middle of one of South London's sprawling housing estates, complete with styrofoam boxes and other grubby detritus dancing a skittish jig in front of the restaurant.

Looming, hooded youths unnervingly perked up on our arrival. The Papine Jerk Centre itself was a storefront takeaway with two or three rickety pieces of garden furniture by way of seating - why they took a reservation from me, I'll never know - and an illuminated over-counter display.

Roots's operation is an admirable one: he has promised to work in it all the hours God sends and make it a vital part of its community. His sauce is an addictive delight. But, dear readers, I cannot tell a lie. I legged it off into the night like a huge, puddingy wuss.

Hear me out: I've lived in Glasgow and the badlands of Manchester; I've happily loitered in New York's Avenue D in the days when Alphabet City was designated A for Alright, B for Bad, C for Crazy and D for Dangerous. I've challenged giant oafs relieving themselves in my inner-city flat doorway. But - put it down to the over-glamming, or getting older, or unsuitable footwear - this was a challenge too far. When your cool young dude cab driver worries about dropping you off somewhere, you have to go with the flow. Or not, as the case may be.

>A£40 cab ride later, we were standing outside Crescent House off All Saints Road. This establishment has a phone line complete with options (dial one for reservations, etc). Sadly, the options didn't include 'dial three to find out when we're actually due to start trading'. At which point the heavens opened and we fled to the nearby Pelican pub which was largely populated by morris dancers.

Which brings us to Stanza, or Plan C. This used to be Teatro, owned by exfootballer Lee Chapman and his missus Leslie 'trout pout' Ash. Now it's owned by another duo, Suzanne Eske and Toby Gawin, wanting to 'fulfil a lifelong ambition of owning their own restaurant and bar'.

Well, I wish them every success but - that restaurant karma again - we did not land on a good night. We were the only diners in the restaurant, while the bar heaved with some kind of corporate private function. The look is supposed to be art deco-inspired but it was hard to discern through the melee of badged-up, boozed-up middle management.

Food, from head chef Stuart Tattersall, offers just enough happy moments to make you momentarily forget the steamy lack of air con, the peremptory door monkey, the dippy, frankly odd manageress and the bland surroundings. Nice view over the bus roofs, though.

I liked the menu a lot. It's a kind of soignÈ trad Brit affair that calls to mind Gary Rhodes in his Greenhouse days - roast Tobermory scallops with English pea blancmange; Yorkshire rhubarb fool - although the odd pannacotta, tortelloni and imam bayaldi have snuck on as well.