Fifteen, London

The boy wonder we got bored of is back with a new show and grown-up attitude. But, asks Terry Durack, can Jamie cook?

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The knives are out, Jamie lad. Watch your back. They're already saying you're an entertainer, not a chef. That at your last restaurant, Monte's, the cooking was done by your mate Ben O'Donoghue, rather than your good self. That the Sainsbury's ads are getting a bit silly.

So far, they haven't stuck it in you for your new restaurant, but only because they haven't been able to get a table. Oh, and because your telephone-booking system is a bit doolalley.

Mind you, it's a tough call for a critic. Normally, the chance to tear strips off someone as young, good looking, opportunistic, and wealthy as Jamie Oliver would give a good honest restaurant critic nothing but pleasure, but Fifteen makes it hard.

It's run as a charity, for heaven's sake. Never mind that all restaurateurs claim they run a non-profit organisation, this one is practically a sheltered workshop. As you've seen on the Jamie's Kitchen television series or read in the Jamie's Kitchen cookery book, Jamie's kitchen is staffed by 13 kids who, less than a year ago, had no jobs and no cooking skills.

So giving Fifteen a caning would be like siding with Steve Bing. After all, this is Jamie Oliver's first go ever at being a head chef. And anyone who saw those kids in action in the early days, tossing out the asparagus tips and keeping the stalks, will know the enormity of the task.

The place is a knockout, set on two floors of a stunning old five-storey monolith in Hoxton. The ground-floor bar is already a lively scene, with its glowing coloured backlights, bottle-twirling bartenders, low-level lounge-lizard seating and – unlike most Hoxton bars – stacks of good-looking food on display, from loaves of bread to platters of grilled veggies.

Then it's downstairs to the charity restaurant where it's all cold and dark, sackcloth and ashes. Just kidding. This is one flash, modern restaurant – a long and skinny Emma Peel meets Barbarella 1960s space-pod lined with hot-pink, high-rise banquettes and moulded white plastic chairs. The kitchen is open to the restaurant – all big, bright and loud – like a giant plasma screen. And there's Jamie, calling the numbers, razzing the boys, totally focussed on getting people fed.

There are loads of waitpersons, all prettily frocked out in Paul Smith cottons emblazoned with the number 15. And loads of people at the tables, all looking a little over-dressed and over-excited. This is not your Hoxton crowd – they're too cool to eat – but classic database fanclub. One young couple keeps taking flash photos of Jamie in the kitchen. They must think they're at Planet Hollywood.

Without taking anything away from the 13 "trainees", it's worth pointing out that this is a serious, professional kitchen with its fair share of highly trained chefs, including the extremely talented Toby Puttock, whose cooking I loved at Melbourne's Termini. On any given service there will be six or seven trainees working with three qualified chefs plus Jamie, who promises four days a week.

The menu reads like a Jamie cookbook, with its "kinda sashimi", "my mate Mauro's bresaola" and "my favourite new salad".

As you'd expect from a River Cafe boy with Gennaro Contaldo of Passione as mentor, the food is mainly Italian, and mainly great. There are no reduced jus, fancy trickles or hotelly splashes, just real, hard-working flavours that come from using superlative ingredients and knowing when to leave well enough alone.

The bresaola (£9) is a cute plate of rosy, wafer-thin meat that tastes like smoky carpaccio (bresaola is the beef version of prosciutto – cured and air-dried pork – and is not normally smoked) under a how-does-your-garden-grow scatter of clementines, dandelion, rocket, mint and the rare peppery, curly Trevigiano radicchio. Gorgeous.

Lasagnetti (£9) shows a mastery of pasta, gliding like velvet over the tongue in a lush though overly creamy ragu of chunky chanterelles, pieds de mouton, ceps and other wild mushrooms. Impressive.

Mains are very Brit-Italian, again showing great produce-sourcing. They are also rather large, although they may shrink as soon as someone has time to work out the profit margins. A grilled organic veal chop flavoured with anchovy and rosemary (£17.50) is good meat, smartly cooked and rested long enough for the juices to reconvene within. It comes with a cheesy fennel gratin that's so good, I want it for Sunday-night tea every week.

There is nothing new about searing a fillet of sea bass (£17.50), but Jamie perches his on a forest floor of baby turnips, roast fennel and golden rounds of potato, giving it a nice Sunday-roast feel.

To finish, passionfruit tart (£6) treads the fine line between tang and sweetness, and tastes richly creamy, warm and very alive.

The wine list, by the way, is a beauty, with sassy Italians and sun-ny Australians galore, although there are no bargains. The food too is pricier than I had expected, pushing Fifteen into the big league along with neighbours Eyre Brothers and the Real Greek.

But take away all the hype, and what you have is a good, fresh, very modern, young restaurant with a good vibe and great kar- ma. I think there are gaps in Jamie Oliver's knowledge, but – just like the trainees – he's learning on the job.

The critics call his attempt to turn unemployed kids into confident cooks Pygmalion-like, but the real transformation has been that of a pretty-boy television celebrity into a serious, focussed chef. By George, I think he's got it.