Telephone: 020-7251 1515
Address: 15 Westland Place, London N1
Rating: 16.5/20

I'll come clean. I was highly sceptical about Jamie Oliver's plan to take 15 no-hope youngsters and turn them into chefs. The publicity, the hype, the TV series, the book... well, it all reeked of a three-ring circus of which Phineas T Barnum would have been proud. And now I have to eat my words. I have found the series compulsive viewing - I care what happens to the trainees; I am transfixed by the change in Mr Oliver's image from Essex charmer to highly disciplined and demanding chef; and it has been highly instructive about just how demanding the cooking profession actually is.

It's all very well eating one's words, but, to expand the analogy as well as to mix my metaphors, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. You've read the book, you've seen the film, now taste the real thing. And so, in the company of Amaryllis, I did.

Fifteen, tucked away in a cobbled backstreet in London N1, has all the trappings of riotous success - black-garbed minder at the door, large bar packed with long, blonde tresses, three-button jackets with the buttons done up, mussed hair and Brad Pitt stubble, mixologists turning the act of making cocktails into an aerobics routine, and enough energy and noise to fuel a power station. The dining room is a floor below the bar. It's long, narrow and pretty hugger-mugger with tables. You can see the kitchen through a huge hatch with very 1950s rounded corners. In fact, the whole place has a kind of sweet retro quality, with something of the sunny optimism and fizz of the 1960s about it.

And in the kitchen you catch sight of the faces familiar from the TV, so at least some of them must have lasted the course. And among them are one or two battle-scarred old pros marshalling the forces with that disciplined precision that you need to keep a kitchen on its toes. And there is Mr Oliver himself, patrolling the pass, quality-control executive, and wholly involved in getting the food right and getting it out.

Ah, the food. Between us, Amaryllis and I managed "Scottish scallop crudo (kinda sashimi), Japanese yuzu lime, pomegranate, ginger, herb shoots and coconut", "Xmas salad, smocked speck, clementine, rocket, mint, Parmesan and 12-year-old balsamic", "ravioli with melt-in-the-mouth oxtail, served in its own broth", "organic fillet of McDuff beef (28-day hang), poached in Barossa Merlot, smashed celeriac and New Forest mushrooms", "Roast partridge, fantastic wild mushrooms, wet polenta, Chianti Classico, pan juices and grape jam". I have quoted directly from the printed menu, which changes every day, because it gives an accurate idea of the style of the cooking, with loads of things thrown at every dish.

It would be easy to make fun of the tendency to list virtually every ingredient, not to mention the Oliverism's such as "kinda sashimi", or the shameless selling of "melt-in-the-mouth", particularly when aspects of certain dishes don't live up to their billing. The oxtail might have been melt-in-the-mouth, but the pasta with it was not - it was undercooked, and had a stiff, cardboard texture. The "kinda sashimi" was oversalted. And the panna cotta that Amaryllis had for pudding was stiff with gelatine.

But it would be unfair to see these as anything other than minor gripes, because the style of the food, and the pleasure it gave, were unmistakable. It was jumbo stuff, British in cast and character, whatever the original provenance of the dish. There are broad, booming flavours; chunky textures; big helpings; generosity in every mouthful. Subtle, sophisticated, delicate and dinky it wasn't.

That is not to say that the food was devoid of refinement. The balance of each dish was deft, in spite of the number of elements. The scallop dish, had it not been for the salt, was a stunner; it looked and tasted like Christmas decorations. The oxtail was a beautiful sweet, restrained mulch. The fillet of beef was simply stonking, huge, uncomplicated, gobsmacking. Amaryllis's partridge was as good a version of that bird as I have ever tasted, in part because it had been hung and cooked perfectly. I could go on, but it's probably better if you go and find out for yourself.

OK, so there is an element of rock'n'roll about the place, but it is serious rock'n'roll. All the staff may look about 12-and-a-half, but they have been extremely well trained, and, better than that, they seem to be motivated by the nature of the operation. They believe in Fifteen and in Mr Oliver. It puts a spring in their steps and a smile on their faces, and their attitude puts a smile on yours. Or it did on mine. The funky Australian sommelier even managed to sell me several glasses of seriously (over?) priced wines, and I felt quite happy about it. I didn't even quibble at the bill, which came to £126.70; that is, £78.50 on the food and £48.20 on drink.

I had something of a dispute with Amaryllis over the marking, however. Seventeen, she said - you've got to give it 17, or I will never speak to you again. She was very smitten with the place and with the food. I was pretty smitten, too, but someone around here has got to keep a sense of balance.

· Open: Restaurant, Mon-Sat, lunch 12 noon-2pm; dinner 7-9.30pm; bar & deli, Mon-Sat, 7am-12 midnight.