Cecconi's, 5a Burlington Gardens, London W1 (020 7434 1500).
Meal for two, including wine and service, £130

You could quite easily go to Cecconi's in London's Mayfair and have a nice bowl of pasta; I just can't imagine why you would want to. The prices are high. The rest of the food is mediocre. The service is like herpes: absent for long stretches, and then suddenly impossible to get rid of. Yes, there is a patina of downlit sexiness and glamour here. I can well see that a certain strata of London's moneyed classes would appreciate the buzz and night-time shininess, but I'm not about to take that as a recommendation. I can only conclude that the crowds come to Cecconi's in spite of the food rather than because of it.

We were greeted cheerfully, but quickly deposited at a window table on the outer fringes of Siberia, both in terms of social position and climate. The air conditioning was so fierce it was not only our resolve that stiffened. After that I am certain nothing else would have happened if we had not stared about the room trying to catch the eye of a passing waiter. We were not there. We did not exist. Until, suddenly, we did. And then didn't again.

Being two big boys, we decided to avoid pudding and order instead three savoury courses. The menu begins with small plates, and a house selection of them for £14. We asked if this would be enough for two. Yes, our waiter said. It was delivered as two plates, rather than one to share. And lo, when the bill arrived we had been charged for two of them. So £28 for what exactly? Oysters on the shell, grilled beneath a crust of breadcrumbs, parsley and Parmesan. These were dry and flavourless - and not surprisingly so. We had seen them lying, pre-prepared, in a cold cabinet on the bar. An oyster done like this will work only from fresh. Ditto some tiny, breaded queen scallops. Still, the two slices of salami had benefited from being mislaid under the hot oyster shells. And the bonsai octopus salad was nice. For £28.

The pasta, as I say, was good: silky ribbons of pappardelle with rabbit and olives; solid ravioli of duck and sage, tasting of both advertised ingredients. And hoo-bloody-rah! This is one of London's most expensive Italian restaurants (think £8 for three medium-sized ravioli). Getting pasta right isn't a cause for celebration. It's a minimum qualifying standard.

I've said before that I think Italians do main courses badly, but here Cecconi's made an extra effort to underachieve. Truffled roast chicken not only didn't taste of truffle, it didn't taste much of chicken either. And it was huge, the leg worryingly plump, as if the kitchen had slaughtered Foghorn Leghorn for me. Eating it was relentless, until I gave up, bored. We felt the same way about the osso bucco. Yes, there was a rush of saffron from the risotto and the veal was tender, but the dish lacked the grace £17 should buy you. A side dish of fried zucchini were not cut thinly enough and were floury, which suggested the oil had not been hot enough.

None of this will make any difference to the Botox-brigade who happily throng its tables, of course, but you may be interested to learn that the restaurant recently launched an all-day menu. Happily, this means you now know not to go there for breakfast, too.