Eating here was a freaky experience, only because I've rarely been anywhere that got everything so "right".

As it is located just behind Claridge's, I'd braced myself for the "Who let the poor people in?" snobbery that I'm used to receiving from toffee-nosed Mayfair. Yet, astoundingly, this airy and breezily unpretentious restaurant houses a very different attitude. There was not a dud among an irresistible list of Mediterranean delicacies.

Pissaladiere (£4.50) may sound like a fancy French term for the lavatory, but it was actually crispy, pastry-based fingers of meltingly soft onion tart. Warm prawns with olive oil (£12.50) were just that, but I'd never tasted better prawns, and managed to use up a bakery's worth of bread to soak up the sauce - unwise, as it meant I barely had room for a cooked-to-perfection turbot with artichokes and white wine (£23) that surpassed any turbot known to man or chef. Mains are designed to share - you're advised to order two of these and three or more hors d'oeuvres - and all dishes appear at random rather than at once, adding to the relaxed, chatty vibe of the place. All conversation on our table ceased though on the arrival of our grated truffle macaroni (£22): creamy al dente pasta so heavenly the bowl deserved its own halo. La Petite Maison, c'est la petite miracle.