This is no urban legend

I am a huge fan of Vineet Bhatia. From his early days at the Star Of India, where his light was hidden under the enormous, camp bushel that is owner Reza Mahammad, through Zaika and the short-lived Zaika Bazaar to the dizzying pleasures of his Michelin-starred, Chelsea swankerama Rasoi, I've never not loved his fresh and vibrant cooking.

And I enjoy much of what I eat at his new diffusion line, Urban Turban (his wife Rashima, who undertakes the look of his restaurants, is apparently responsible for the wince-inducing moniker). But, despite reasonable food and an accessible price - just like your local Taj Mahal if you avoid the mango and rose coladas and ginger daiquiris - I have no intention of ever darkening its doors again.

It is tricked out like a suburban nightclub: mirrored surfaces, shiny, glittery soft furnishings, its overwhelming darkness pierced by blobs of coloured light. Decibel levels are aimed at those uninterested in conversation - I'm sure these are the most banging of tunes but I'm here for dinner, not a dance around my handbag.

I wonder if the waiting staff have been taking lessons from legendary (read rude) Khan's across the road. When we're not being ignored by harried floor waiters, we're being condescended to by a manager who seems to fondly imagine himself somewhere more elitist than this is supposed to be. He's living in his own private Groucho Club, permanently accessorised by an invisible velvet rope.

We're shown to the worst table in the house: a canapé-sized job for two pressed against the mirrored rear wall, behind the central bar and flanking the entrance to the toilets.

I ask - nicely - to be moved to one nearer the front. He shakes his head with an insincere moue of regret: those are for parties of four. So, imagine my rage when two twentysomething, willowy blonde lovelies who arrive after us are shown straight to a lovely big window-front table.

If he'd said 'you are too old/badly dressed/unattractive/whatever,' he couldn't have made his disdain more clear. And my pal and I are reasonably cute, you know. Where will he seat the genuinely unprepossessing? The loos?

The menu is one of those irritating jobs that pontificates 'dishes are served as they are prepared, with no formal sequence!' (love that exclamation mark), which always seems to translate as 'everything arrives at the same time'. With a table the size of a doily, this is less than ergonomic.

The shtick is Indian street food, little snacky things such as samosas and chicken lollipops bolstered by a volcanic rock grill platter (grilled at the table) and classic mains.

No Bombay hawker of my acquaintance has ever purveyed the likes of home-smoked honey and mustard tandoori salmon with cucumber-dill raita, or queen scallops gratinated and flavoured with mustard seeds and coriander, but I won't hold a little tweaking with authenticity against them.