Cigala, Central London

Real Spanish cooking is always about to be the next big thing. A meal at Cigala shows why it never quite manages it

Now that we're all modern Europeans, you don't hear as much about mañana culture as you used to. Cigala was greeted in February with the feverish enthusiasm you'd expect for a new restaurant serving neglected food from a hot country cooked by a chef with a great pedigree (The River Cafe and Moro) at a cheerless time of year. The only reviewer caught having a siesta when it opened was me. Tomorrow finally came, by which time dining very publicly on this glass-walled corner of a neighbourly Holborn side street had been all the rage for a couple of months. By now, I could claim, I wasn't just judging on novelty.

Now that we're all modern Europeans, you don't hear as much about mañana culture as you used to. Cigala was greeted in February with the feverish enthusiasm you'd expect for a new restaurant serving neglected food from a hot country cooked by a chef with a great pedigree (The River Cafe and Moro) at a cheerless time of year. The only reviewer caught having a siesta when it opened was me. Tomorrow finally came, by which time dining very publicly on this glass-walled corner of a neighbourly Holborn side street had been all the rage for a couple of months. By now, I could claim, I wasn't just judging on novelty.

Cigala is singular. It belongs, though, to the Clerkenwell earthy fraternity, some of the places to eat (I can't say restaurants as one is a takeaway) that I most admire and love ­ St John, Moro, Eyre Brothers. Respectively British, Moorish and Portuguese-influenced, each ploughs its culinary furrow with passion, integrity and skill.

Exclusively Spanish, although its instigator Jake Hodges is not, Cigala also sets out to show us the real thing. For though we've trashed the coast, most of us are none the wiser about the food, and over here there are few Spanish restaurants of note. Its appeal is often vaunted, but Spanish cooking never really gets the promised exposure. Until now. Yet since Cigala opened, El Rincon in Chelsea (from the restaurateurs Claudio Pulze and Raj Shama, who usually back a winning, chef-led formula) has closed after just a few months. Perhaps, after all and despite its untapped potential, there are reasons why Spanish food is always about to be the next big thing but never is.

We were greeted, not by any of the brisk staff, but by fumes from the little kitchen, where chefs work beneath dangling paella pans. Not that there's anything as obvious as paella, kidneys or hake here. The idea, admirably enough, is unexpurgated Spain. If only dishes such as Russian salad (oddly popular in Spain, and a million miles from the Heinz version) and pig's liver, in any shape or form, were more palatable. But faithfully and lovingly made though this Russian salad was ­ with potato, carrot, gherkin, peas (fresh ones, I'm fairly sure), tuna and excellent mayonnaise ­ it made a somewhat insurmountable starter.

More energy was expended tackling, and less digesting, cigalas (aka Dublin Bay prawns or langoustines) a la plancha. "Tricky to open, and after all that dismembering you only get one mouthful," moaned resident wimp, battle-scarred by its scratchy claws. They came with a bowl of romesco sauce, a creamily smooth paste of tomato, chilli, garlic, ground almonds and, for smoky, earthy piquancy, dried sweet red pepper. It was one of the high points of several platters ­ white china, rectangular, with unfortunate Tex-Mex associations ­ and cropped up again with the deep-fried monkfish. This fish, on the bone, (filleting is not a feature of Spanish cooking) was fabulously fresh, with asparagus and artichokes, similarly deep-fried, to keep it company.

Chicken livers came cooked until firm and almost caramelised on the outside, with onions and sherry for soft, sweet and savoury contrast. The fourth starter of squid, its Concorde-like shape contrived by being opened out and flattened, was the least tender flesh of the night. Smooth, white and leathery; with a pair of boots made of this a girl would be in business. The accompanying salmoretta, a vibrant tomato and herb sauce, wasn't enough consolation, even with delicious soft bread to mop up every last red and green speck.

If these judgements sound harsh, they're no tougher than some of the food was. The restaurant is good-looking if plain. The noise level, air quality, seats, and some other dishes were uncompromising. Braised rabbit with twigs of thyme, lemon and garlic sauce and thick-leaved spinach: slightly hard work though rewarding enough. Pig's liver with sherry, orange, chard, lentils, sultanas and pinenuts: sweet, sharp, bitter, challenging. Turbot a la plancha with escalivada, untranslated, but a salad of roast aubergines, button onions and red peppers bristling with parsley: lovely, simple, fresh, unusual. At last.

Our choices accounted for less than half the menu, which draws on an enormous reserve of undiscovered Spanish dishes. Alternative main courses included marmitako, a stew of tuna and red pepper; rice with chicken, broad beans and peppers; migas (fried breadcrumbs with morcilla peppers and poached eggs) and baked eggs with peppers, onions and tomatoes stewed. Prices for these ranged from £10 to £16.50. As the kitchen aims to be scrupulously true to the spirit of Spain, and has misses among the hits, so the wine list is fair to the grapes. Arranged by varieties, many of which are unfamiliar here, and commendable for that, it was, according to our oenophile, an unedited, enthusiast's document. "Like a PhD thesis. It's as though they can't bear to leave anything out , and it makes choosing anything risky," he said disdainfully, swirling a tempranillo round the glass. He'd spurned our earlier choice of a bottle of palomino, a wine from the sherry grape. "Tastes as if your aunt has eked out the sherry by watering it down." You're better off drinking sherry itself in the blood-red bar downstairs.

With a couple of shared puddings ­ an eggy orange cake nubbly with nuts, and a slice of custardy orange flan ­ and a plate of exceptional cheeses and membrillo (quince jelly) which showed just how fine and rare Spanish produce can be, we spent around £25 each on food, another £15 each on wine, to arrive at the £40 that eating out in any new London restaurant invariably costs. "What I really like about Spanish food is that you have it in Spain. Spontaneously, casually, and cheaply," summed up one of our party. Still, none of us would put off going back to Cigala indefinitely. So many aficionados can't all be misguided, the menu changes daily, and tomorrow is another day.

Cigala, 54 Lambs Conduit Street, London WC1 (020-7405 1717) Mon-Fri lunch 12-2.45pm, dinner 6-10.45pm, Sat lunch 12.30-3.30pm, dinner 6-10.45pm, Sun lunch 12.30-3.30pm. All cards accepted. No wheelchair access to lavatories. Set-price lunch £15-£18.