There was a time, not so long ago, when any review of a Polish restaurant (under this byline, at least) would have been laced with tediously ironic complaints about the lack of authenticity. I might, for example, have moaned about being served sausage without having spent seven hours queueing for it in a snow storm. Thankfully - for the Poles, almost as much as for the readership - things have changed. According to the trio of Polish sisters who take turns in mucking out the pigsty we call home, and other equally reliable economic indicators, that most geographically cursed of nations is relishing its EU membership, and it may not be too long before Warsaw or Krakow replaces Reykjavik, Dublin or wherever is the continent's most happening city at the minute.

Anyone eager to experience this transformation, but lacking the patience to wait for it to reach Poland, is hereby directed to Baltic. Tucked away behind a gloomy frontage in a glum road in a grim bit of south-east London, the interior couldn't be more studiedly removed from the samovars and clumping sideboards that bedeck more traditional eastern European joints. Once you pass a long, dimly lit bar presided over by an appealingly gruff chap, you enter a bright, uncluttered, high-ceilinged room seemingly styled after a cool New York studio, with wooden beams, enormous skylights, dauby modern paintings and brick walls. If there's a lack of sombreness about the room, there's hardly an air of oppressive jollity about the decor or service, either, and thank God for that. The very last thing we new year depressives want on rare forays out of the dressing gown is a riot of colour and merriment.

The first thing we do want is a menu tailored for a bleak January day, and here Baltic sets the tone by putting mulled wine topped with almonds (£4 a glass) at the top of the page. Once we'd been moved to a conventional table, after a principled protest against the effeminacy of a banquette for a man-man combo, we had glasses of this nutmeggy nectar with excellent bread and pickled cucumber, and set about ordering.

My starter, kaszanka (£7), was three circles of fine, strong black sausage, deep-fried and enlivened by a purée of pear and red cabbage. My friend also liked his squid with chicory, tomato and fennel salsa (£7), seared quickly enough to preserve whatever semblance of natural flavour squid has, and to prevent the flesh acquiring the consistency of a used grand prix tyre.

Baltic, it seems to me, is a place to visit in deepest winter with the express ambition of overeating, so I ordered a third main course to share - a dill-infused pork and duck stew with pumpkin and white beans, so rich and tender it might have been bubbling away in the oven for a couple of days. My main course proper, braised rabbit with sage dumplings (£14.50), looked great - all saffron yellow and carrot orange - and suggested a delicacy of touch for which eastern European cooks are seldom celebrated. Roast partridge with bacon, sautéed black cabbage and cranberries (£14), with a portion of fluffy mash, was another classic winter warmer: "The secret of game," said my friend, "is that it has to be underdone, but without the meat being red. This is just right."

Generally in such a restaurant, it is at this point in a meal that thoughts turn to flavoured vodka. However, the memory of the night when a piece of roof flew off immediately above our bed and I slept through a violent storm for the next six hours, is oddly persistent. As is the recollection of lunch with a predecessor on this page at my beloved local Polish place, Patio in Shepherd's Bush, after which one Matthew Fort dropped off on a tube train and didn't awake until the end of the Central line in deepest Essex. Anyway, regardless of the narcoleptic risks, all that knocking back shots of honeyed vodka seems a bit Warsaw Pact for an era in which Poland rivals Britain and Australia as the most loyal cheerleader for George Bush's carefully nuanced foreign policy.

So, sedately, we finished our wine, decided that, in the absence of a stomach-pump, puddings were out of the question, and still left relishing the mild bloatedness that seems the ideal psychological digestif, or indigestif, for an outstanding midwinter lunch.

Rating: 8/10

· Telephone: 020-7928 1111
Address: 74 Blackfriars Road, London SE1

Open Mon-Sat, lunch, noon-3pm, dinner, 6-11.15pm
Price Arounnd £35 a head, inclusive. Wheelchair access & disabled WC.