I approached this facelifted boozer with little enthusiasm: Marylebone needs another great gastropub like Newcastle is crying out for coal.

Yet the Duke of Wellington stands a distinguished head and shoulders above the rest. I'd braced myself for an above-a-posh-pub clone, but we were enchanted to find a "proper" restaurant: candlelit, white tablecloths, grown-up diners.

At first glance the menu seems to be British, with such starters as scotch egg. But it's actually tres French. My date's crab bisque (£6) was fresh, well presented and had a subtle shellfish taste.

In the name of research I boldly chose spiced pig's head "cake" with trotters on toast (£7.50); it sounded revolting but in fact was quite mouthwatering, rather like a patty of Peking duck with two tiny fried eggs on top.

Mains were a while coming, but worth the wait. "How delicious is that?" cooed the date, tucking into roast breast of pheasant (£16) with a puy lentil casserole that had the gorgeous richness of a cassoulet without feeling like a heart attack on a plate. That is, if you ignored the unnecessary, fatty pork sausage plonked in.

My tubby medallions of Cornish monkfish (£16.50) came jollied up with curried mussels, spinach and coriander. We barely had room for pud, but who could resist a chocolate pannacotta with blood orange caramel (£6)? Not us: imagine the most sinfully chocolatey Angel Delight in the world. I'd barely swallowed my last spoonful before I was texting a rave review to friends.