Sticklebackpink, 168 Ifield Road, London SW10 (020 7835 0874). Dinner for two, including drink and service, £75

Managing a busy restaurant takes real talent. Managing an almost empty one takes rather more. I hope the South African front-of-house boys at Sticklebackpink, a newish North Indian restaurant off London's Fulham Road, are good at the former because, god knows, they're lousy at the latter. As the meal came to a close my wife said, 'Don't be too horrid about them. They seem nice enough.' That was just before they delivered the bill with the tip space left open, despite 12.5 per cent service having already been included. Pat rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said, 'Oh, do what you like.'

I will try to be kind. Part of their problem is the design of the place, which looks like it was conceived by someone who has never worked in a restaurant. Upstairs is the bar, where the staff hang out. Downstairs, via a white-walled spiral staircase, is the arched modernist catacomb of a dining room where we sat alone. The waiters had no choice but to pop down occasionally just to see how we were getting on. And, when they arrived, it was hardly illuminating.

I asked about the name. Our boy mumbled something about Indian fish called sticklebacks. Weird, I said. Sticklebacks are grey-green. 'Maybe the owners just thought it was a nice idea.' Maybe, indeed. We were cosily united in our ignorance.

Next I asked about the raan, a slow-roasted knuckle of lamb. How long it had been roasted. 'Oh, 15, 20 minutes.' Really? I sent him back to the kitchen to check. A good raan should spend at least half a day in the oven. He returned. 'Six hours,' he said.

When he offered sorbet, I asked what kind they had. 'Oh, you know, plain.' Plain? 'Yeah, vanilla.' Vanilla sorbet? 'Yeah.' It was a new one on me. And so on. Being the only ones in there, we asked that the clattering music be turned down. It didn't happen until, an hour later, another waiter noticed how loud it was and asked if we'd like it turned down. We ordered mineral water. They poured a glass and then carried the bottle off like it was a 1947 Pétrus.

The real shame about this, and you can probably see it coming, is that the food is generally good. The Stickleback platter of tandoor roasted chicken, duck, lamb and king prawns brought an ungenerous small piece of each for £7.50, but it was pleasing, and the chicken had an uncommon succulence and pungency. Crisp samosas filled with rich, spiced, flaked mackerel had a lovely unmitigated fishiness that I rarely associate with Indian food.

Pat's fish biryani was fragrant and aromatic, and hidden in there were sweet, fat scallops (though not enough to justify the £15 price tag). And my raan was exactly as it should be, the meat coming away from the bone at the merest touch. Most serious Indian places require 24 hours' notice for a raan. To produce one like this on service is smart. The only down notes were the bland black-lentil dal and a very weird, cloying dip of what we were told was sun-dried tomato paste, but which was so black as to suggest sun-burnt. And then there was that plain vanilla sorbet which was, of course, lemon sorbet.

With three beers, the bill came to £75, which is too much and probably explains why, that Sunday night, my wife and I were two-thirds of the customers.