York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, London NW1

From outside, at the top end of Camden Parkway, standing aloof from the down-market boozers and fast-food joints of Camden Town, York & Albany looks like an exceptionally posh American bar. There's no name over the door, the bottles at the bar are gorgeously back-lit, indolent punters sprawl in fat leather armchairs, high-maintenance dames perch at the counter with their beaux and wish they could smoke. It's so cool, you feel pleased with yourself just walking in and ordering a gin and tonic. And, because it used to be a pub (dating back to 1827; it was built by John Nash of Regent's Park fame, and named after his mate, the Duke of York and Albany), some locals do drop in just for a pint. Are they crazy? Don't they realise this is the trendiest eaterie in London, that Gordon Ramsay bought it for £4m, and it deserves respect? Next thing (my dear) they'll be asking for a d-dartboard ...

It's a bar, and a hotel, and it's Angela Hartnett's second restaurant to open in four months. I reviewed her Mayfair joint, Murano, when it opened: it was very bright and classy but disappointingly unadventurous. The restaurant at York & Albany is, by contrast, depressingly lit but the food is terrific. The wallpaper is stripy taupe, a horribly muted 1950s shade, and the lampshades are slightly more expensive versions of those huge rice-paper globes that could be found in every student bedsit in the late 1970s. I cannot imagine who he can be, the designer who's filling London with stripy taupe walls.

There's just enough light to register, among the starters, a "game mosaic", which is a happy way of describing a terrine, also some deep-fried lamb's tongue and fried duck's egg with field mushrooms. Ms Hartnett's instincts for hearty fry-ups do her credit. My friend Angie chose the pumpkin risotto accessorised with 18-month-matured gorgonzola, despite misgivings about blue cheese ("Is keeping it for 18 months good? It must be putrid") and pronounced it "the best comfort food, very creamy and mild and filling". I'm not a risotto fan but I thought it brilliant, the pongy Italian cheese complementing the nutty rice with an odd sweetness. My swordfish carpaccio was much lighter, tangy and fresh-tasting with pickled fennel draped over it in tagliatelle-sized strips.

A simple bonne-bouche of chicken liver parfait with foie gras was served in a jar with curly toast. Parfait was the word – it had been so beaten, whipped and puréed, it was the consistency of soup and the temperature of blood, but delicious to an unearthly degree. But what was it doing in the no-nonsense Ms Hartnett's cuisine?

The mains were charmingly served in a casserole and one of those ancient, heavy brass dishes you covet in stately home kitchens. Red-leg partridge isn't a bird I eat every week but it was a treat: the rough-textured legs cooked in a fine stock, the breasts evidently pan-griddled to a firm but yielding consistency, both served on celeriac purée with curly kale. I encountered this double-aspect cooking strategy in Dublin recently, when I ate a plate of lamb served three different ways. Mark my words, it works brilliantly with game birds too.

Angie's oven-baked halibut with chorizo and white beans was equally good, the fish snow-white and, so to speak, virginal, the chorizo slices so smoky and, as it were, macho, bringing some tough Mediterranean bravura to the quaking purity of Mademoiselle Halle Butt. My companion detected a Spanish influence in it, despite Ms Hartnett's famous devotion to all things Italian, and devoured it. Her only cavil was the white beans, which lay a little heavily upon the guts, especially after the risotto, but that, I explained, was her own silly fault.

Surprisingly, we passed on the steamed treacle sponge pudding with vanilla custard for two (maybe next time, when I haven't eaten for a fortnight), but couldn't resist the prune and Armagnac tart served with clotted cream. The tart was moistly overwhelming, the prunes redolent of grapes soaked in honey. A small, one-for-the-road Manzanilla sherry trifle came in a titchy cocktail glass topped with cream and almond flakes. It was a wonderful miniature of ambrosia, to round off a rather stunning meal.

I've waited a while to experience the much-vaunted brilliance of Ms Hartnett in her own space. At Murano, I couldn't detect many signs of genius. But with this succession of triumphant dishes, beautifully cooked, heftily flavoured, lightly sauced, imaginatively presented and lovingly served up in this handsome gastropub, the real Angela comes into focus at last. All I can say is, it was worth the wait.

York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, London NW1 (020-7388 3344)

Food
Ambience
Service

Above £90 for two, with wine

Tipping policy

"Gordon Ramsay Holdings passes on all of its discretionary 12.5 per cent service charge to restaurant staff after the deduction of a small credit-card charge"

Side Orders: Camden classics

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