The French House, Soho

The bright bar downstairs is a delightful melange of bad pop art, complimentary olives and chesty barmaids who look like extras from Les Mis, with a sardined clientele who are still visibly livid about the smoking ban. But walk upstairs into the mirrored dining room and you’ll find an altogether different atmosphere: a handful of quiet tables, fantastic waiters and an air of refinement not in evidence three metres below.

The menu was the perfect length: the vegetarian selection was slightly lameass but I suppose that’s to be expected in a French restaurant. My pork was tasty although I won’t be ordering black pudding stuffing again in a hurry; my friend’s salmon looked nice but predictable. While the main courses lacked creativity, the desserts menu looked like an LSD trip in comparison. I had the apple and pecan crumble served with rum and raisin ice cream and white chocolate sauce, but like a good When Harry Met Sally fan, I ditched the two accompaniments and had it à la mode instead – much better.

Admittedly there were no fantastic surprises but there were no nasty shocks either and as a safe bet in Soho, The French House has it sorted.