Chintamani, Picadilly

Ottoman cuisine is all about small mezze and individual flavours, and Chintamani is no exception. But Richard Johnson finds the food lacking in Turkish delight

I can't bear repetition. That's not completely true. I like: "I got my mind set on you/ I got my mind set on you/ I got my mind set on you ..." – "I Got My Mind Set On You", by George Harrison. And: "A wimoweh a wimoweh a wimoweh ..." – "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" by Tight Fit.

But that's it. And the same goes for the restaurant game. I don't want every menu to look the same. That's why I booked in at Chintamani – a new Ottoman restaurant in London – on the understanding that I would encounter some unfamiliar mezze.

My New Year's resolution is always to eat less – and never, ever super-size again. Some people, some American people, believe that super-sizing should be made illegal. They are angry. They say, "You made me fat, and now I'm going to sue your big clown pants off, Ronald!" Well, mezze, or small dishes for sharing, would be ideal for them. As long as they can get their heads round the concept of "sharing".

Our waiter didn't understand the menu. He told me that the "peynir" in the rocket, tomato and peynir with olive paste (£4.50 as a mezze) was a herb. Well, peynir is not a herb – it's a hard cheese made from sheep's milk. The curds are left to harden and acquire a firm, slightly elastic texture, before they are salted and dried.

The owner of Chintamani was standing by the door, handing out leaflets naming his wife as somebody's International Interior Designer of the Year. I don't know the background to the voting, but I imagine it was something like Fame Academy. In Chintamani she had put up a tented ceiling, with a large chandelier casting soft light on to the rough walls. Pretty enough, but I didn't get "casbah".

The ceiling was too high to make the place intimate. The bigger parties seemed relaxed enough. Well, they were able to recline on their comfortable sofas and order up enough mezze to make their tables groan. But our pitiful table for two was woefully small – like a fold-down in Economy. Every time our waiter arrived with one mezze, we had to finish off another just to make space.

Turks are culinary purists – dishes are designed to bring out the flavour of the main ingredient, and not to hide it under a sauce. So I knew that the aubergine would taste like aubergine, and the lamb would taste like lamb. But I found it all rather boring. And, contrary to the prevalent Western impression of Turkish food, spices are used simply and sparingly. Too sparingly, in the case of the sumac-scented fried sardines.

Sumac comes from the grated skin of a dark berry. It's a delicate spice that is best sprinkled over salads and vegetables. I've always thought of it as a poor man's saffron. Its tart, bitter flavour complements chicken and salmon, but it didn't stand a chance against a couple of strapping sardines.

I was set on the imam bayildi. The name, literally, means "our imam has fainted". The story goes that an imam (a holy man) was ending his fast, and was so taken with the aroma of aubergine, stuffed with onions, garlic, and tomatoes, that he passed out cold. When I ordered it, our waiter screwed his face up – like he knew the imam personally. I should have followed his advice. It arrived swimming in cheap oil.

The roast quail with aubergine and beetroot juice (£17 for a main dish) was tender enough, but a little insipid. Quail always makes me think of Clement Freud's code of conduct. If a bird says "cluck bik bik bik bik" or "caw", you may kill it, eat it or ask Fortnum's to pickle it in Napoleon brandy with wild strawberries. If it says "tweet", it is a dear friend and you'd better lay off it if you want to remain a member of Boodles. I should have steered clear. Especially as I've no idea what noise a quail makes.

The mussels stuffed with rice were the only real success. And, to be honest, they were just mussels stuffed with rice. They made me forget my table manners. I've heard that in Turkey you're meant to leave enough food on your plate to feed the eunuchs. Well, at these prices, the eunuchs will have to take care of themselves.

For dessert, my friend Ann went for date brûlée with orange biscotti. "It was nice," she said, "but brûlée is always nice. The only reason I had it was that, for the money we spent, I didn't feel sufficiently full." I wasn't tempted by the burnt rice pudding with mastik-flavour. Who would be?

The next day, I woke up with a stomach ache. I am not a doctor. I have seen them portrayed by actors on television, however, and I don't often get stomach aches. Draw your own conclusions; save the money.

Chintamani, 122 Jermyn Street, London, SW1 (020-7839 2020)