A booming good night out

EATING OUT DRONES 1 Pont Street, London SW1X 9EJ. Tel: 0171 259 6166. Open daily for lunch from 12 to 3.3.30 and for dinner from 7-11.30. Average three-course menus: cafe lunch pounds 15; dinner pounds 30. All credits cards accepted

"ANDREW Waugh Thompson? No idea who he is. Anyway, the last time I was here, I was sitting all on my own - my wife'll tell you I'm right because she was ill - four bowls of caviar and some nice wine and the chap on the next table leaned across and said, 'You on your own?' I said, 'Yah.' 'My wife's ill,' I said. He said, 'Yer want come sit with arse?' I said..."

As the barman grinned glassy-eyed at the large be-suited bellowing man with spotted tie, matching kerchief and squirming wife, it began to seem clear why the newest addition to Antony Worrall-Thompson's restaurant empire (190 Queen's Gate, dell'Ugo, Zoe, the Atrium, Millbank) had been christened "Drones". In fact, "Drone" would have been better that Saturday night, for apart from myself, struggling to retain some dignity on a bench seat that looked normal but made it impossible for your feet to reach the ground or your arms to reach your drink, there was no one else in the bar.

But Drones has been called Drones for many years. It was first opened in the Seventies by Dave Gilmour of Pink Floyd, and was relaunched by Worral-Thompson at the end of November. The smartest new restaurants seem to feel positively undressed these days without a coulis of other food- dispensing outlets around them: in Drones' case, a basement "Blues bar", a cafe, tapas bar and "grocer" (as they coyly call it), where my requests for a pint of milk, half a dozen eggs and some orange juice were met with raised palms and embarrassed glances at the array of caviar, charcuterie and exotic sea creatures which are what is understood by "groceries" if you live in Knightsbridge.

The bar has a stone floor, terracotta walls and ceiling crisscrossed by pottery string, with a tree rising through a hole in the middle. The theme was quite hard to define: Spanish Timeshare meets Tuscany meets Swiss Chalet meets - as the barman opened one half of a neatly stacked Swiss-style log store to reveal a cupboard full of soft drinks - Salvador Dali, perhaps? When my dining companion arrived he saw it exactly. "Yes, it's like being on the set of Eldorado," he murmured smoothly, "a vodka martini, please."

In place of Polly Perkins, however, the serving staff were smart, young, professional and friendly in a particularly pleasant way. The restaurant, though much fuller and more convivial than the bar, still seemed unnatural, with the top and more attractive half of the tree providing the centrepiece to a conservatory effect. Wrought-iron gates and Iberian-style arches separated one section from another, diners sat at glass tables with terracotta bowls of lavender underneath and pin-prick ceiling lights softly illuminated orange walls and bright blue shutters.

Dress was casual/incredibly expensive: here a cashmere sweater over cords, there a quilted gold-chained handbag insouciant over silk. But as a familiar voice boomed - "I said, to him, I said, 'Where the hell d'yer get that bloody thing from'" - and we spotted our friends from downstairs at the very next table, we began to feel quite part of the scene.

Worrall-Thompson is famed for his jackdaw-like Mediterranean ecleticism, but Drones had promised a cuisine that was Worrall-Thompson grown up, with the youthful lust for the disparate ingredient maturely toned-down. When we opened the menu, then, to see "Poached scotch fillet pot au feu wrapped in cabbage and soft boiled egg sauce" offered alongside "Chicken, Cabernet Sauvig-non vinaigrette and horseradish and parsnip puree", we were intrigued to know what had been edited out to produce this new simplicity.

The menu begins with caviars, then shellfish, then "Carpaccios etc", then starters, then main courses, then tapas, then charcuterie - making you vaguely anxious that if you were really doing things right you would select one item from each section and simply eat them in the order presented. My companion remained steady and calm, starting with a charcuterie plate and boldly going on to the steak-with-soft-boiled-egg ensemble. I, however, flailed towards two starters: pan-fried prawns with two-truffled potatoes and hot foie gras with lentils. The debate with the waiter about which should go first climaxed in his return to ask when I wanted the sardines.

The food, by the Australian chef Chris-topher Miller (previously at 190 Queen's Gate and dell'Ugo) was, in the words of our nearby friend, "bloody good". If the charcuterie plate was anything to go by, selecting from the kind of grocery items on sale next door is a particularly good bet. My starter was fancifully presented with jumbo prawns and potato crisps perched on mash like something Fergie might leave in an aircraft hold - but these sea creatures were juicy and tasty and the truffle mash a total indulgence. The foie gras was divine but the lentil accompaniment - to my mind too liquidy - gave the dish a dark satanic air that made me long for some nice toast and clean crisp lettuce. The steak was a feast of tenderness and richness; the "pot-au-feu" a cabbage- and-bacon-wrapped roll at once spicy and fresh-tasting, rather like tabouleh. Happily, the threatened soft-boiled eggs had been refined out of existence into a rich brown jus.

As for the clementine and Armagnac cream pot we shared for dessert: once in a while, a pudding comes along that makes one wish for a lifelong supply in the fridge so that one need never be unhappy for longer than it takes to open the door and locate a spoon.

Our bill, with a cocktail each beforehand, came to pounds 92 plus service, which seemed par for the posh restaurant course. We felt, though, that for a slap-up night out we'd prefer somewhere more comfortable and real- seeming. But as we waited for our coats and heard, "Now, the last time I was here - my wife'll tell you I'm right because..." - we both agreed we would miss the lovely drones.