Telephone: 020 7592 1222
Address: The Connaught Hotel, Carlos Place, London W1
Dinner for two, including wine and service, £120.

I am not one of those who considered the restaurant of London's Connaught Hotel a sacred institution that needed protection from the barbarian hordes of Gordon Ramsay's operation, which has just taken over its running. Frankly, I am more concerned that I actually have a view on the Connaught. Had you told me half a lifetime ago that I would one day be bollocking on about the status of these great wood-panelled, chandelier-pregnant dining rooms, I would have chucked myself off the nearest cliff.

But there you are. Time moves on and so, too, does the Connaught. In its old incarnation, it was a ludicrous place that charged £38 for a plate of lamb chops. Now, three courses cost £38, which looks like a steal - although obviously it isn't. For that sort of money we expect great things, and Ramsay has made a grand attempt to deliver. The main dining room has been given a makeover - new carpets, tasteful paintings. It is now called Menu - a silly name, but forgivable. Most importantly, Ramsay has installed Angela Hartnett in the kitchen.

I have a certain investment in Hartnett's success. Earlier this year I identified her as one of the rising stars of the restaurant world, so wouldn't I look an arse if this was a lousy affair. Hartnett's thing is Italian food, learnt at her grandmother's knee, and the idea of such a visceral cooking style in one of these great London dining rooms appeals to me. The arrival of a plate of thinly sliced prosciutto, a basket of country breads and a bowl of olive oil suggested she could deliver on her promise.

Then came the starters. I ordered the roasted pumpkin and amaretto tortelli with a sage butter. It was fine, but fine is not good enough. The pasta was soft, the filling smooth and savoury, the butter, buttery. It was an unexceptional plate of ravioli. My wife's sautéed sea scallops and tiger prawns was just a few bits of fresh seafood without a unifying idea. It wasn't a dish so much as an assembly. So far, so glum.

From then on everything picked up. As a special mid-course, they were offering tagliatelle with white truffles at £10 a serving, which amounts to a bargain. It was exactly what you want from an upmarket Italian gaff: silken pasta, buttery dressing, and the sweet pungency of the truffles shaved at the table.

Our main courses also managed the neat trick of combining classy execution with solid ingredients. Pat's smoked pork belly was soft and fibrous and came with jewels of pearl barley. My caramelised sweetbread came with roasted garlic, a wild-mushroom sauce and an extra pot of sautéed porcini heavy with thyme. Autumn on a plate.

For dessert, Pat's pudding of dinky melon balls in a basil syrup topped with a grappa granita was light and refreshing; my crisp, sweet, sugared pasta fritters filled with marinated strawberries and dressed with an amaretto-spiked crème anglais was just plain rude.

So, on the plate, everything - bar those starters - is as it should be. The letdown is the service. There's so much of it. The room is overseen by the outrageously monikered Helena Hell, a Scandinavian Sade lookalike. And though she may indeed be a smooth operator, I just didn't want her to do so much of the operating around us. Our table, situated by the main serving station, felt like we were seated in Clapham Junction, with waiters coming, going, and sharing tips for the 3.20 at Kempton.

But the real downer was our sommelier, a Peter Purgatory to Ms Helena's Hell. I went for wines by the glass and asked for a recommendation from the short (and expensive) list to go with my choices. Immediately, he plumped for the most expensive before going on to suggest - ooh - all of them. And then the performance. It was as if he was trying to win the Droitwich heat of sommelier of the year.

Finally, there came the pantomime with the bill. By this time I'd been rumbled as a critic. Suddenly, I wasn't being charged for the truffles or my drinks in the bar. I had to send the bill back three times before I was charged full whack. This sort of amateur stuff is letting down Angela Hartnett's cracking food. Don't these people realise? I can't be bought for the price of a bowl of pasta and a kir. My starting price is at least a grand and a kilo of white truffles.