A word to the wise

Not too bad, not too great, not too affordable... It may not be Mayfair's most spectacular restaurant, but Deca's old-school charm still leaves Terry Durack almost speechless

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Second Helpings: More newcomers from seasoned professionals

This reminds me of one of my favourite Reader's Digest jokes, in which a book entitled How To Be Brief was reviewed as "Good."

At the brand new Deca, as at its older sibling, Incognico, the wine list is very cleverly and charmingly annotated with single-word descriptions of each listed wine. So a Pinot Grigio is "breezy", a Chablis is "bone-dry", a Chardonnay is "toasty", and a Sancerre is "dynamic". It ain't poetry, but such smart sign-posting shortens the length of pondering time considerably.

It's a taxing test for the food writer as well, to sum up what's going on in a single word, but I'll give it a go. So the ground-floor room, with its inappropriately close tables and cloying staff, is best described as Claustrophobic, while the upstairs room, all fading light diffusing itself over blond wood floor, textured walls, gently Oriental mirrors, is Luminous.

The chairs are Heaven; gorgeously old-fashioned, Chesterfieldian, leather-bound seats that invite you to make yourself at home and stay all night long. Designer David Collins is the original leather lad, upholstering chairs and banquettes in a rich, burnished mahogany hide that looks as if it will grow old more gracefully than those who sit upon it.

A dainty appetiser of soft, sweet quiche is Fresh, and a woven basket of assorted breads is Generous. It's the sort of bread that you could give a baby; all soft, gentle and warm – almost Pappy – and it is served with the world's classiest butter pat, from Echiré in northern France. These little gold-foiled butter portions are the new table accessory, gracing Electric Brasserie and Racine, as the capital turns from the olive-oily Mediterranean back to buttery, creamy France.

The crowd – this is Mayfair, remember – moves from Japanese (early) to American (late) while the staff are mainly French. The menu is Conservative, and the prices are Steep.

By Conservative, what I mean is starters of dressed crab, potted shrimps, smoked salmon, prawn cocktail, foie-gras terrine and chicken-liver mousse and mains of grilled baby Dover sole with tartare, skate with capers, fillet of beef with mustard and fillet of beef with mustard and tarragon sauce. By Steep, I mean the dressed crab is £12 and the beef is £18.50.

I try an asparagus risotto (£9.50), tortellini of langoustines in lobster sauce (£12.50), charcoal-grilled John Dory fillets with thyme olive oil (£16.50) and breast of duck with honey and peppercorns (£14.50), which can be described in turn, as Pleasant, Classy, Bland, and Bitsy.

The risotto is moulded and round, and tastes fresh, green and summery, if under- seasoned. The tortellini smacks sweetly of the late 1980s but with its parchment-thin pasta, sweet fresh langoustine filling and seamlessly balanced sauce, it is a joy to eat, and testimony to the talents of Paul Rhodes, formerly chef of Chez Nico at Ninety Park Lane, which closed down recently after the 10-year lease expired.

Charcoal-grilled John Dory was never going to be exciting once somebody decided to serve it in small fingers. Only a large piece of fish can stand up to the heat of the grill long enough to get an interesting textural surface. It's lukewarm, with very little flavour, and comes with a joke of a garnish that appears to be a miniature Greek salad.

I also debate that chunks of thick duck breast nuggets sitting around caramelised vegetables in an unappetising Stonehenge is the best way of serving duckling. It's like the chopped-up food your mum did for you before you learnt to wield a knife. It's meaty enough, and the pepper/honey contrast is not without interest, but it's not going anywhere. A side dish of petits pois is Murky and "chips" are Soft, but golden and potatoey.

Service is Muddled. Some staff are very junior, some senior, some inattentive and some overly attentive, particularly to wine glasses. They are either all over you, or nowhere to be seen. The same goes for the food, which suggests that in these early days, the kitchen has not yet greased its wheels. My table waits an age for starters, only to have main courses sent out in a flash after they are cleared.

The atmosphere, tonight at least, is definitely Smoky. There are cigarettes everywhere, before, during and after the meal. When is smoking in restaurants going to be banned? There is a terribly polite little note at the foot of the menu about smoking, but it does not have a hope against people who light up half-way through their own partner's main course, much less mine at the next table.

Desserts are Classic, and nicely so. The peach Melba is Stunning; a lovely, creamy, fruity, sweet confection that leads your mouth from one spoonful to the next. A little mousse of fromage blanc with a berry jelly is Cute, but foolishly plated, and served with inappropriate cutlery. If you hear the crash and tinkle of spoons hitting floors, then somebody has ordered the fromage blanc.

There is an old-fashioned air about this new restaurant, with its paper doilies, silver wine cradles and fawning waiters. But it's also the old-fashioned dishes that come up trumps. There is nothing not to like about it, but there's not much to love, either. It's not Great, or Outstanding, or Bad. In the immortal word of the Reader's Digest, it's Good.