Luciano

The Italian job from Marco - half-Italian Yorkshireman and devillish overlord of TV's Hell's Kitchen - is bang in the middle of hedge fund country. The spacious, handsome art deco bar and restaurant look good but the timeless dignity is spoiled (as a woman's appetite may be) by the work of Bob Carlos Clarke, photographer of MPW's glory days, of dominatrixes, overflowing bras and other soft pornish images not of the gastro variety. Location and taste in 'art' may explain why most diners are male. The cooking is classical Italian but not of the less-is-more persuasion; portions and presentation are anglicised and man-sized. In Italy such lavish slices of saltimbocca and correspondingly huge sage leaves probably wouldn't come draped over pommes purée. A zucchini fritti side order was unnecessary but still irresistible. Vitello tonnato, tender slices of veal and lots of them, in a not especially fishy sauce, had green beans and yellow endive thrown in. While the cooking's a shade the wrong side of maximum flavour, it is still satisfying and generously served. After being ignored at the bar, service turned matey in the restaurant. 'How's your wine?' the waiter popped up to ask.