"Can Ramsay conquer New York?" asked the cover of Caterer and Hotelkeeper magazine last week. I rather doubt it, but at the time of writing Frank Bruni, restaurant critic of the New York Times, has yet to have his all-powerful say.

The London Bar, the larger part of Gordon Ramsay at The London (NY), serves dishes similar to those presented by Jason Atherton at Ramsay's Maze in Grosvenor Square.

I hadn't been to Maze since its opening in May 2005, when I loved the cooking, but didn't love the surroundings.

I rang to book last Thursday - Thursday being the new Saturday, you realise - at about 6.30pm and was able to get a table for two at 9.15pm.

I could have had a table in the bar at 8pm. The extensive bar area was pretty deserted when we arrived. To have devoted so much space to it seems a bit daft in the light of Westminster Council not granting a late licence.

Customers are greeted by a display of Gordy's books in a glass case and receptionists dressed in outfits reminiscent of the circus ringmaster.

One gazed at the bookings with a look of boredom and disbelief that managed to convey "how could you two women possibly expect to be on the list here?" but eventually discovered that she had to let us through.

After less than two years the number of dishes on offer has decreased, the prices increased, but there is still plenty of temptation. We chose three small savoury plates each, although I believe the advice given - "yes, we have eaten here before, no, we don't want the grazing concept explained" - suggests double that.

So intricate, revealing, thoughtful and downright delectable was each item we selected, that too many would have dazed and confused the palate.

A small rhomboid of foie gras including chips of smoked ham hock - as much foie gras as anyone should or could want - came with teeny florets of cauliflower representing piccalilli that were acerbic enough to elbow sharply its richness.

Managing to cook ribbons of waxy potato until soft but still pliable is an art. These, sprinkled with herbs, were woven around baby artichokes with black truffle dressing and a dollop of mayo on the side. A waiter then sprang forward to grate a little white truffle on top; fantastic.

The texture of the ox tongue in beef "tongue'n'cheek" was airy, eerie and brilliant with the tight-knit quality of cheek.

Gingering up the accompanying carrots was another masterstroke. Blood orange and sherry trifle topped with a granité of vodka and cranberry and served with a warm almond financier was a delicious bargain at £4.50. The house champagne at £12 a glass is not a bargain.

Lighting is dim, cutlery babyish and ghastly music thumps remorselessly. "I wish there was a special corner for drearies likes us," said my friend Dee, "with lights you could read by and no music. I certainly would be back for that food." I think Frank Bruni would like it, too.