This is what it took to get me to Imperial China in London's Chinatown: an ornamental goldfish pond; a dinky bridge across it; a bit of wood panelling; a baby grand piano and a pianist playing the theme to Love Story. If I had known the pianist would be playing Love Story when I booked I'd probably have gone tooled up with a can of petrol and a box of matches, as a service to fellow diners.
London's Chinatown boasts the greatest concentration of Chinese restaurants in Britain. Numbers mean competition which, combined with a large Chinese population, should mean quality. It doesn't. With a few notable exceptions - Yming on Greek Street and Fung Shing on Lisle Street - most of the restaurants here are remarkably poor. They serve identikit menus with studied ill grace in the kind of rooms where you can imagine unhappy marriages being celebrated.
A few months ago, a barn of a place called China City, situated in a tiny courtyard off Lisle Street, reopened as Imperial China after a refit said to have cost £1.5m. Surely if they'd spent all that money on the decor they'd have given the food and service side of the business a going over, too? You can see this coming... They haven't.
Imperial China is as lacklustre as all the others. It is also overpriced and while occasionally the waiters do smile, it comes across as an involuntary spasm. Otherwise, service is that unholy trinity of abrupt, impersonal and unwelcoming.
There were three of us eating, the minimum number required, I think, to give a Chinese menu a shakedown, and we attempted to order away from the Cantonese standards. This may have been our mistake. It was the most commonly found items which were the most successful.
A starter of grilled dumplings, while hardly revelatory, didn't offend as other dishes did. A main course of char sui pork did at least taste of pig and had a balanced sweetness. Toffee bananas were light and crisp outside, mushy within, and the best thing we ate. When toffee bananas are the best thing in a Chinese restaurant you know you are in trouble.
A starter called golden brick - a lump of deep-fried, salty, battered tofu - was just a bad idea. I accept that certain Chinese dishes are entirely about texture, but even so... A single salt-and-pepper spiced deep-fried soft-shell crab arrived lukewarm and limp, and tasting of oil, while roast duck Cantonese style, recommended to me by a friend, was limp and greasy.
At the front of the menu is a short list of highly priced specials, from which we chose a hotpot of black cod and aubergine in spicy sauce. There was a good depth of flavour but, for a breathtaking £20, it was very short on fish; what was there hadn't been boned and the aubergine was sodden with oil.
The wine list is more extensive here than at most Chinese restaurants, and goes up to the heady heights of a £600 Chateau Margaux. On this particular evening we opted instead for a so-so bottle of Rioja at £22. Indeed, alcohol may be the restaurant's salvation. Upstairs somewhere is a karaoke room. Get drunk enough, sing your heart out and you may not notice the failings. We weren't drunk enough, and we did. All I can say is: beware Chinese restaurants bearing ornamental bridges.
· Imperial China, White Bear Yard, 25a Lisle Street, London WC2 (020 7734 3388). Dinner for two, including wine and service, £80.
