There's a lot of buzz about this spot that seems to be loved by every food critic in town. But as people who genuinely love British food, we feel this place does a disservice to the revolution in British cooking. Sure, there's the traditional Arbroath smokie, and Jersey potatoes, but it's unimaginative at best. The menu is dull to the point of being adjective-less: cod, rabbit and duck? It's almost as though they took their cues from the airline workers of past yore; 'chicken or beef' anyone? With the exception of beef Wellington, which can only be had by a big party, dishes were oily or heavy, with singular notes in the cooking. As if that weren't enough of a let- down, the staff seem to feel you're honoured to be here. Problem with your food? Guess what, they'll bring it right back after a tour of the kitchen and try to convince you to keep it. Don't want it? You'll still be paying for it. All this in a room of unevenly painted blood red walls with nary a painting in sight, barely serviceable tables and rather scuffed and unfinished mouldings? Well, there's just no effort here at all.

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