Grace and Flavour: Ducksoup

Right now, Ducksoup couldn't be any more on-trend. It's all about sharing plates, shabby chic, no reservations, hand-written menus, no-frills service, Twitter updates and bring your own vinyl.

If that gives you a retinal migraine, you may be better off not joining Ducksoup's queue. This oozes out on to Dean Street each evening, filled with people unfuddled by hipness, prepared to wait in the cold for the chance to share bowls of ox cheek and runny polenta, while Soho media types perch on stools beside an antique record turntable blaring out The Sonics, eating foie gras on toast or grilled pollock.

Ducksoup's food is exciting, innovative, super-fresh and slightly orgasmic. I could have passed back the menu grunting, 'One of each please, keep them coming,' but reined the order back to grilled lamb cutlets with salt and lemon, a moreish celeriac dauphinoise, a large ball of plump buffalo mozzarella with fennel seed sprinkled cavolo nero and an excellent salad of raw, finely julienned sprouts with a pungent lemon and parmesan dressing.

Dishes appeared swiftly and the service bordered on surly. I was sat in direct sight of the man washing up my dishes, my mind wandering to where the line lies between 'pared-down NY-style dining' and 'this place needs five litres of emulsion and the walls skimmed by a plasterer'.

We ordered rhubarb cheesecake, which arrived in a flash, hurtled on to the counter between us, upside down in a minuscule ramekin, wholly untroubled by rhubarb. In under 55 minutes the dinner, regardless of chatting, pondering over pudding and demanding coffees, was finished and we were £70 for two lighter.

I liked Ducksoup but I'm puzzled how it fits into my little black book of reputable venues. It's suitable really just for couples wanting a very quick dinner, or with a guest you know already who you don't mind sharing a runny stew with. Someone unfazed by a menu scrawled in Bic, who doesn't mind going for dinner with no booking (ergo, no guarantee at all of getting dinner), and who then won't flinch at the premium prices for this embarrassment of wonky riches. If you know this person, tell them to call me as I'm still dreaming of the ox cheek and polenta.