Robert Hardman

IT WAS like being the child in the tale of the emperor's new clothes. We were in Isola, the much-lauded new venture of the great Oliver Peyton, preparing to enjoy our first mouthfuls of a menu which has won praise from most of London's culinocracy for its 'audacity', 'innovation', etc. But we had a problem.

My friend, Alice, had decided to start with the 'honey-roasted quail, salad of porcini mushrooms with four-year-old Parmesan'. The only problem was a lack of quail. 'Don't worry. It'll be hiding under that geriatric Parmesan,' I assured her. She picked away a little longer, overturning every shard of cheese before declaring that the quail really had come without any quail.

I had a rummage. It was true. This was not a case of ultra-minimalist cuisine. This was non-cuisine. When we eventually man- aged to hail a waiter, I expected some sort of explanation or apology for the quail-free quail. There was none. He gave us a slightly suspicious look and asked briskly, 'You want another one?'

Alice said that, yes, she would, preferably with quail this time. He disappeared with the plate. Other waiters shot us disapprov- ing looks. Either they thought that Alice was trying to wangle some extra quail on the sly or they thought that we were imper- tinent for complaining. It seemed a very odd way to treat your customers when you have just spent £4 million on what is meant to be a gastronomic landmark. Isola is certainly a bold venture. It is, in fact, two large restaurants in Knightsbridge. Isola is the brighter, brasher joint upstairs. Downstairs is the more relaxed and ostensi- bly cheaper Osteria. A huge glass front cov- ers both levels so that Isola diners look down on the heads of the bus queue out- side and Osteria customers look up at their legs.

Oliver Peyton, the man behind the Atlantic Bar and Grill, Mash and Coast, wants this to be his flagship restaurant, a New-York-style, power-dining paradise offering the best of Italian cuisine courtesy of a star French chef (Bruno Loubet).

As you enter Isola through a bank-vault door, another arena of power springs to mind. The perpendicular red banquettes, the brown tiles on the walls, the chrome and the sharp lighting struck me as rather Soviet. It is less Manhattan, more Politburo executive dining-room, circa 1965. When I had made my reservation I was told that the earliest available table was for 9.30 p.m. When we arrived at 9.15, the place was barely half-full. The tables with a street view had been taken but there were acres of empty seats at the back, where Alice and I sat with a view of the parquet flooring on the wall. The service matched the view. Perhaps the letters 't', `e' and 'd' had fallen off the sign saying 'Isola'. Mr Peyton is particularly proud of an all- Italian wine list which boasts 250 different labels, no fewer than 70 of them by the glass. The staff insist that their storage equipment keeps opened bottles fresh for weeks, but I have my doubts. I tried three different reds by the glass, one of which tasted as if it had been left open for a day. Again, it was only changed after much eye- contact avoidance and indignation from another po-faced waiter. I have seen happier bunnies in documentaries about vivisection.

Ordering a whole bottle is a better bet. Our £23.50 bottle of 1997 Montepulciano Macchione did not cost much more than two glasses of 1997 Barbera Sandrone, and was markedly better. Having your own bot- tle also spares drinkers the task of finding a waiter when they need a refill.

Although the wine took for ever, the food did not hang about, arriving within five minutes of ordering. I had been told that the must-have starter was the creamed white onions with melted cheese and fresh black truffles. It was, indeed, excellent: a delicate mousse thatched with truffles, and exuding an alluring smell of truffle and cheese jostling for aromatic pole position.

And then there was the non-quail. Even- 'You're grossly overweight, Mr Bear. Approximately how many picnics do you attend each week?' tually, Alice's plate was brought back with a huff and a few slivers of the elusive bird on top. The little honeyed morsels were a gamy and lively addition to the dish, but it was hardly worth all that effort.

Main courses followed swiftly. My sword- fish was a generous slab, if a little lukewarm and watery, while Alice was unimpressed by her ravioli. The parcels of artichoke and cheese sat in a duck ragout which tasted of nothing so much as school mince. 'No differ- ent from Ponti's,' she concluded. The most memorable thing about this dish was that, without warning, it shot from £9 on the menu to £15 on the bill. Beware of ordering a starter as a main course.

As for the evening, the abiding memory is the joylessness of the staff. I do not mind waiters who, like these, lay cutlery the wrong way round or confuse a filter coffee with an espresso, provided that they make an effort and appear vaguely happy to serve the punters. But when they do not and when the bill comes to £150 for two, you wonder how long a place will last.

I went back at Sunday lunchtime to try Osteria with two other friends, Tim and Penny. The service was much better and the Seventies-style white leather sofa seats — 'Very Andy Williams,' Tim reflected — were more comfortable. But we felt rather exposed. At £13.50 for a mediocre mush- room omelette, it is hardly surprising that this great well of a place was virtually empty. For £13.50 you could buy a Sunday set-menu in many London It-joints.

Osteria promotes the dividere principle of shared dishes and we started with buca- tini (thick spag) carbonara, a chickpea pancake and sun-dried tomatoes stuffed with anchovies and capers. Tim and Penny both enjoyed the bucatini for the same rea- son I did not ('very eggy') and the toma- toes were an interesting fusion of garlic, curry and fish flavours. The pancake turned out to be a sugary base for a huge pile of rocket.

We followed with Roman-style lamb — tender but numbed by a heavy tapenade — some pleasant guinea-fowl slices and the omelette plus a power-packed endive salad heavy with Gorgonzola. Penny observed that each dish was either a little on the bland side or overwhelmed by combative flavours. As an old Italian hand, Tim found the whole thing rather un-Italian. 'It lacks that simplicity. It's all a bit poncy.'

At which point, a waiter appeared with a huge roll of cellophane and proceeded to unwrap it across all the bottles of drink. 'It keeps the dust off,' he explained. Having just paid £180 for lunch for three, we thought they might have run to cupboard doors.

Isola/Osteria, 145 Knightsbridge, London SW1; tel. 020 7838 1044. Lunch and dinner every day.

Robert Hardman is a columnist and corre- spondent for the Daily Telegraph.