Value beyond the novelty

Some initiatives have disaster written all over them. Like the heroically awful and deservedly short-lived Blue Belt in Old Street - a fabulously ill-advised coalition of tapas-sized French dishes and kaiten-zushi conveyor belt. The sad procession of slowly congealing sauces will live with me forever.

Or the Irish restaurant in Clapham where the owner got progressively more pished and more Oirishly maudlin as you ploughed your way through your inept dinner. Or the Malaysian Nyonya restaurant in Ramsgate - yes, Ramsgate - where the sociopathic owner railed against his dreary seaside existence and charged £6.50 for a bowl of sticky rice.

Or the converted pub in the arse end of King's Cross whose owner is determined to source his produce from locations on the London Tube map. So fish comes from the Thames, pork and lamb from Amersham and carrots from Brick Lane. With a decor that almost, just almost, defies description. Definite disaster area, huh? Actually, no.

I had been avoiding going to Konstam at the Prince Albert. Owner and chef Oliver Rowe's unique angle ensured him a flurry of opening publicity. Hell, he's even got his own TV crew following him every telegenic step of the way. Now The Urban Chef is showing on weekday evenings - which makes me think he's not as daft as he might seem.

But reviews of the restaurant had been less than kind and I dreaded joining the clamour to pour scorn on this passionate maverick.

I needn't have worried. Perhaps because we didn't wander into nettle or hairy bittercress or Sevenoaks ox-tongue territory, or because Rowe has got into his stride, we really enjoyed our dinner.

We were given a table abutting - almost in - the open kitchen. I have never understood the appeal of the kitchen-based 'chef's table' and felt like a cross between voyeur and gatecrasher.

Still, it was intriguing - and slightly unnerving - to be in such proximity to our dinner's preparation. You have to have a high tolerance for fingers in food when you're this close.

We watched as slivers of skate were draped over soft leaves and then scattered with lardons and breadcrumbs. This was the evening's least successful dish, the limp skate lost in the assembly.

We eyeballed our golfball-sized fritters of Norbury blue cheese with wild garlic being plunged into the deep frier before being anointed with a squeezy bottle of caper dressing - not sophisticated stuff but gutsy, oozy and good.