SOMEHOW I had an idea it had been pulled down,

but there it was, in all its middle-period Ceaucescu squalor, our very own Department of the Environment, by common consent the ugliest building in — if you'll pardon the expression — Europe. Fortunately, though, I had not come to the dreary wastelands of Westminster in order to interview the Conservatives' umpteenth Environment Secretary, but to try out a new restaurant, which had been recom- mended by a gourmet-cum-landscape gar- dener over from California.

It turned out to be a black-windowed, green-awninged affair on the ground floor of a Thirties mansion block, previously occupied by Lockets, and then, briefly, by Green's. Now this not very promising site has become Shepherd's, after its co-owner, Richard Shepherd, who made his name at the Capital Hotel in Basil Street, before linking up with the late Peter Langan and Michael Caine to open Langan's Brasserie.

The interior is low and must have been difficult to cheer up, but a well-designed series of 'architectural' loose-box stalls cleverly brings down the eye-level. The walls are hung with a mixture of mirrors and the usual Langanesque assortment of eclectic pictures, ranging from fruity Geor- gian cartoons to lush nudes. I had arrived early and sat at the bar wondering whether to take my customary revenge on my wife's habitual lateness by slipping in a couple of courses from the Bar Menu (lobster salad at £8.50 seemed tempting). Then, to my amazement, she walked through the door on the stroke, like Phileas Fogg, with our friend from Califor- nia. Something, I felt, must be wrong.

And so it was. After I had ordered them drinks, I said to the barman, 'Please could I have a Virgin Mary?' He gave me a strangely menacing look and said, 'My name's not Mary.' I was dumbfounded.

After what seemed like an eternity, he

added, in an equally hostile tone, And we're not that sort of place.' It was the end

of an exhausting week. I could think of no response to such a sally. I leered politely and consoled myself by stuffing my face with a potful of pork scratchings — salty and delicious, but, alas, as I discovered later, extremely indigestible.

Soon after we had gained the sanctuary of our stall and placed our order, my wife said that she was feeling ghastly and had to

go home immediately. Still shaken by the Virgin Mary incident, I thought of joining her, but after recovering my sense of duty to The Spectator and to my stomach, declared, 'All the more for us.'

The remains of my wife's eggs baked with smoked salmon and cream were rather too runny and short on the fish, but my smoked halibut and dill flan with soured cream was strong and robust. Our friend from California chose the best, with his not-too-rich black pudding and hot potato salad garnished with fat bacon.

By way of a fish course, we divided my wife's order of salmon and prawn fishcakes, a disappointingly dry and chewy concoction to which the prawns contributed nothing in the way of flavour, only partially redeemed by a light, well-balanced parsley sauce.

My main course, an uninspiring dollop of cottage pie, was, I fear, a dud choice. My companion allowed me to finish his hand- some portion of roast duck with sage and onion stuffing and apple sauce. Jolly good it was, too: well prepared and cooked, with crispy skin on the outside, pinkish succu- lent flesh inside and gamy stuffing.

Our puddings — lemon cream pie with raspberry sauce and summer pudding with a heap of clotted cream — were top-notch and served on attractive floral plates. Indeed, the crockery throughout was hap- pily far from uniform, and the amusing bath-tub ashtrays all contributed to a friendly atmosphere. The service was help- ful and I took a particular shine to the black pudding waitress.

My friend from California thought the wine list was 'a bit uneven', but it seemed reasonably priced to me. From the stock of New World wines we drank a Woodbridge sauvignon blanc from Robert Mondavi (`OK') and a Hawkes Bay cabernet merlot from the Morton Estate in New Zealand (like aftershave'). The bill came to £107.49 for three — well, two and three-quarters.

All in all, a mixed evening. I felt the fates were against us, and I think Shepherd's is well worth another try. Next time I'll take my joke book.

Shepherd's, Marsham Court, Marsham Street, London, SW1 (071834 9552).

Hugh Massingberd

Nigella Lawson's restaurant column returns in a fortnight.