Telephone: 020 7584 4477
Address: 239 Brompton Road, London SW3
Rating: 17/20

Glossy, chocolate sauce-brown panelling, chocolate fondant banquette seating, chocolate marquise flooring, long mirrors, suave French waiters, marmite Dieppoise, tête de veau à la sauce ravigotte, lapin à la moutarde, Mont Blanc... where are we? Lyons 1932? Lille 1952? Lisieux 1962? London 2002?

The last, of course. Such places as Racine have all but vanished from their country of origin, but they live on in the hearts and memories of the English of a certain age, who cut their gourmet teeth in those brasseries, bistros and restaurants de famille d'antan.

So, Racine is French in form and in food. The assurance and authenticity of the front-of-house is guaranteed by Eric Garnier, long one of the smoothest, most charming, most fiercely disciplined purveyors of that art in London. But the man behind the stove? That most English of Englishmen, Henry Harris, in whom glee and gastronomy seem to walk hand in hand. Harris has been one of our ablest, most articulate and nicest chefs for some years now. For eight of them, he moulded the palates of the lads and ladies who lunched at Harvey Nichols's Fifth Floor, finding a cunning balance between earthiness of flavour and lightness of touch. Seeking new challenges, he moved to Hush, to which, in my opinion, he was not ideally suited. On the evidence of lunch at Racine in the company of Superplonk, he is now master of his own destiny and emphatically back on song.

We started with a few oysters with small spicy sausages, which is how they like them in Bordeaux. July isn't quite the season for oysters, but these were perfectly acceptable, and the little meatballs that came with them were immaculate models of porkiness livened up with judicious chilli. Then it was salade Lyonnaise for me and andouillette de Guéméné with a salad of green beans from the set menu for him.

The form that the salad took was not at all what I'd been expecting. Instead of the anticipated heap of waxy potatoes and sliced sausage, dotted with chopped shallot and glistening under a slick of vinaigrette laced with mustard, I received a mighty stack of leaves mixed with bits of potato, black pudding, duck, shallot, anchovy and heaven knows what else. Authentic it might not have been, but scrumptious and generous it undoubtedly was. Superplonk's andouillette was cold, sliced, mild-mannered and went very well with several pieces of bread and its own salad.

Again choosing from the set menu, Superplonk took the plaice meunière. In terms of value for money, careful selection of raw material and spot-on cooking, this took a lot of beating. It was a substantial fish of impeccable freshness, with none of that wooliness that plaice develops almost as soon as you lift it from water. It had been skinned and cooked to the colour that I hope to turn this summer. It was simply beautiful, as Superplonk told me twice, though using rather more words.

I was equally happy with my grilled rabbit with mustard sauce - with a side order of tête de veau à la sauce ravigotte, complete with brains. You must forgive me my occasional excesses. Tête de veau is my mother's all-time favourite dish, and since she wasn't there to have it, I ate it on her behalf. And she would have been delighted, because the Harris version is quite light, poached in a broth and sliced; the sauce of capers, cornichons, parsley, onions, mustard, vinegar, oil and maybe some other ingredients besides was served separately.

It is a tribute to Harris's skill, his appreciation of tradition and his immaculate taste that the succulent, well-weighted rabbit and its smooth, gracious mustard sauce were not overshadowed in any way by the veal. In fact, each dish displayed all the direct virtues of simplicity. The flavours came through strong and clear. There were no useless garnishes or tricksy saucing. This calls for great restraint, an absolute understanding of what each dish is about, and the skill to bring it off. It is infinitely more difficult to achieve than any amount of flighty legerdemain, because the quality of the primary ingredients and any shortcomings in the kitchen are ruthlessly exposed. I couldn't detect any weaknesses in either.

I wish I could say the same for the wine list. Or rather, I wish that Superplonk could have, because I trust his judgment absolutely in such matters. He found it disappointing, less for being largely restricted to French wines than for the overall dullness of the French wines on show. Having said that, he found a bottle of exceptional chardonnay from Spain - Marques de Grinon, if you're interested - that helped us ease our way to a bill of £76.45, by way of a helping of cheese and a classic, tongue-and-tonsil-coating petit pot au chocolat.

Heaven knows how well Henry Harris speaks French, but he cooks it rather better than most Frenchmen.

· Open All week, lunch, 12 noon-3pm (3.30pm Sun), dinner, 6-10.30pm (10pm Sun). Menus: Lunch, £12.50 for two courses, £15 for three. Wheelchair access (no WC).