A welcome City charmer

On the night we visit - you were going to get a review of it on this page - the retreat is so absolute that we are the only people in the place. With the exception of a beautiful and on-the-ball gal behind the bar and a slightly bemused manager ('I've only been here a week').

It's pretty big, too: two floors of emptiness for our voices to echo thinly around. I'm perfectly aware that the City on a school night isn't going to deliver riotous bacchanalia but we're talking an atmosphere about as throbbing as a private party for two at the O2 arena.

The menu causes bursts of anxiety: who knew you could still say 'pan-Asian' without even a suggestion of irony? The likes of sweet potato, enoki mushroom and coconut pannacotta with watercress salad tip the anxiety over into downright alarm.

We stay long enough to enjoy a well-mixed vodkatini, brave curious loos behind the kind of plastic, slatted curtain you find in refrigerated meat stores and worry about descending into deep, deep sloughs of melancholia.

Then - and I'm sorry - we scarper into the night and in the direction of The Mercer. Any residual guilt I might feel is dissipated by that circumflex. Frankly, my dears, that makes me feel that The Shêd deserves everything it gets.

The Mercer, buzzing and bustling, offers everything The Shêd doesn't: you immediately get a big welcome and a sense that, despite the City's current financial tremors, all is right in the world.

Although the site's previous incumbent, the short-lived Ballroom, would probably disagree. This part of town, despite its population of bonus squillionaires and expense account addicts, isn't the easiest place to score a decent dinner. All too often you're met with inflated prices and frosty, uncaring service (yes, Coq d'Argent, I do mean you). So that warmth is genuinely appreciated.

It's no coincidence that it shares a name with the hipster hotel in New York: this Mercer has a very Apple-y feel to it, from the look - exposed brick walls, plain wooden floor, unadorned big windows and insouciant, monochrome colour scheme - to the accents honking from both our neighbouring tables.

Its style reminds me a bit of super New York restaurateur Keith McNally's joints. How amusing - expat Brit creates hip NY-style that copyists import back to the mother country.

Joint owners Jason Bedford and chef Warren Lee both worked at Chelsea's rather more frou-frou The Collection; you get the feeling that it's a relief for them to sink their teeth into something a little more butch.

The menu is masculine-Brit - potted Yorkshire ham hock, roast leg of English lamb for two, Barnsley chop - with only the occasional foray into the likes of ravioli and carpaccio for levity.

It's mostly pretty much on the money, with the occasional slip: too salty, slightly thin 'London Particular' (pea soup: geddit?) served in an attractive, oversized cup and saucer.

Or one of the menu's few lighter choices of seared scallops with peas, bacon and lobster sauce, none of which have much to say for themselves; its recipient describes it as 'wedding food'. And simply poor 'creamed' mashed potatoes - little evidence of butter, cream or even milk. We leave them virtually untouched, but no comment is made.

Otherwise, it's good stuff: soft, mulchy black pudding with smoked bacon and a perfectly poached egg that weeps its golden, emollient yolk on to the pudding. Sirloin steak has the depth of flavour and melting texture that talks of quality meat and judicious dry-ageing.

There is a textbook Bakewell tart: densely almondy but with light, super-short pastry; all it lacks to make it sublime, according to the pal, is Bird's Custard. And a fantastically savoury Welsh rarebit with a lick of Guinness which is served, sadly, tepid.

Prices aren't silly - unless you hit the dizzier heights of the creative, posh fizz and grande marque-heavy wine list. But even here common sense prevails; they've installed both the Enomatic and Le Verre de Vin wine systems, which allow you to try even the loftiest vintage by small carafe or glass, albeit a glass that can wind up costing 45 quid.

A frisson of City life intrudes as we watch the deals being cut by pacing suited dudes in a glassed-in corridor that leads to the loos.

There's no doubt as to the target audience. So, is it the business? Not quite. But with its relaxed, unstarchy attitude, flexible and approachable menu (there's even breakfast) and buzzy, brasserie appeal, it comes close. A whole lot closer than the pretentious, misjudged, we-ain't-no-common-or-garden Shêd.

A meal for two with wine, water and service costs about £90. 34 Threadneedle Street EC2. Tel: 020 7628 0001. www.themercer.co.uk Tube: Bank

The Mercer
Threadneedle Street, London, EC2R 8AY