In pursuit of the ladies who lunch

A quick reshuffle of my dinner guests, and I called back to book for Sunday evening. "We are only open for brunch on Sundays. Our chef is very good but we are a new restaurant."

In fact, Kicca has been open on Draycott Avenue since late March, its modern European menu aimed squarely at the ladies of the Royal Borough who lunch (which may explain why it seems in no hurry to open in the evenings). It's big on small things - salads, soups, sandwiches - with a few token, meaty items on the à la carte menu to appeal to a man's inner Desperate Dan, such as a spring lamb cutlet at a frankly exorbitant £26.

As a place to lunch in Kensington, however, Kicca is competing in a crowded field, and does not seem to be winning. At 1pm last Friday, when I'd finally managed to secure a table, the only people in the place were me and my guests and a woman I took to be co-owner Chicca Carbonelli D'Angelo, who sat in a corner smoking furiously (while she still could) and casting mournful looks in our direction.

The room is long and narrow and covered in black mosaic tile with splashes of hot pink everywhere, as if designed to lure in the twins from Big Brother.

The cutlery is oddly balanced, the Villeroy and Boch crockery twisted into odd and irritating lips and scrolls and curlicues, like glazed origami. A friendly waiter brought us a very pleasant bottle of Regaleali Rosé from Sicily and a rather less pleasant bowl of stale bread and grissini.

We opted for lunching-ladylike starters. Pete's warm vichysoisse with truffle foam had a velvety texture and a nice, rich flavour, while my chilled celery consommé with prawns and asparagus vinagrette (sic) was pretty, but didn't taste of anything much, not even celery.

Jane's pan-fried prawns with tomato and pepper salsa were under-seasoned. The stand-out starter was Ann's grilled asparagus with fondue of gorgonzola and hazelnut sabayon: she mopped up the last morsels of the dressing with a finger.

Main courses were more disappointing. Jane had the pan-fried seabass, which was agreeably crisp, but came on a congealed and f lavourless bed of squid ink taglione dotted with a few meagre clams.

Ann's rosted (sic) corn-fed chicken breast was dull and dry and a bit close to nouvelle cuisine, size-wise, to justify a price of £16.50.

My pan-fried John Dory was both overdone and oily, although the braised fennel it came with was a nice surprise. Pete was lured towards the steak sandwich with onion marmalade, because it came with a fried egg. The steak that arrived was perfectly medium rare, tender and flavourful, but a bit on the cold side and conspicuously eggless.

We asked the waiter where the egg was. "Egg?" he said. It comes with an egg, we insisted. "No it doesn't," he said. It took a bit of vigorous jabbing at the menu before he believed us, but at least he understood. His female col league couldn't comprehend our order for another bottle of water. The egg, when it turned up on a little side dish, was beautifully cooked, as was the side order of spinach, which hove finally into view just as we were finishing our mains. Did I mention we were the only customers in the place?

Puddings were uneventful. Fruit salad was fine but over-chilled. Chocolate chip croquant and Bacio Ice Cream was ludicrously sweet and toothsome. I asked the waiter to identify the constituent parts of my cheese platter. "That is a blue cheese," he said, pointing to the blue cheese. Yes, but what's it called, I asked? He trudged the long walk back to the kitchen to consult chef Luigi Vespero, and emerged triumphant. "Blue cheese," he said, with an air of finality.

We gave up, and drank up our respective Muscat and port. Espresso came in cups shaped liked miniature Carabinieri helmets, and the bill came to more than I'd expect for such variable fare and service. I don't think Daphne's and the other Draycott Avenue haunts of monied females need to look to their laurels any time soon.

Kicca
Draycott Avenue, London, SW3 3AD