The Wells, Hampstead

This has always been one of London's most comfortable quarters. But only now does it have a restaurant to do it justice, says Richard Johnson

Hampstead is a living museum - a Hollywood version of Merrie England, with red phone boxes and cobbled streets. But it can be a tiresome place to live. Because, despite its pleasant situation, salubrious air, and chalybeate waters, Hampstead has nowhere decent to eat. The restaurants are dowdy places, serving old-fashioned victuals. But all that is about to change.

Derek Creagh, who began his career with Heston Blumenthal at The Fat Duck, has just taken over The Wells. He laid jatoba wood floorboards (a real statement of intent) and gave the place a lick of paint before reopening the elegant Georgian building as a bar/restaurant. And the residents of Hampstead should be throwing their top hats in the air.

The dining rooms are on the first floor. Their earthy National Trust colours work well. So do their tables and chairs, from some "significant" Danish designer. The end result is terribly elegant - like a private members club where the three-martini lunch is still in vogue. From the large, double-fronted windows, I had a clear view of London's prettiest village. All that was missing was an extra selling chestnuts.

The room wasn't full - but by the time you get round to booking, it will be. There was nice music (Moloko, I think) that made me say, "This is what I would like my pad to be like." There was more napery than strictly necessary - always a good sign - and a choice of wine glasses. They even mixed my gin and tonic at the table. Which I like, because it makes me think I'm in Upstairs, Downstairs.

I'm always wary of warm onion tart (even if it does come with Mrs Kirkham's Lancashire and golden purslane for £6.25). I call it "the quiche of death", because it's difficult to make it really sing. But this offering had thin pastry that still managed to flake, a sweet mess of buttery onion, and a soft, runny lining held together with a thin cheesy skin. It was a slice of heaven.

I nearly sent back the golden purslane. What with it not being golden. I'm glad I didn't make a scene. By checking with the Good Book (Geoff Hamilton's Gardening Year) I was able to ascertain that the leaves of purslane are, indeed, sometimes green. And that purslane is excellent for scorbutic troubles. The historic residents of Hampstead, where they still worry about akes and agues, will be pleased.

The smoked haddock and cockles, creamed broad beans (£6.75) arrived with a poached egg quivering on top. It was right to quiver - poached eggs bring out the tiger in me. I cut straight into its golden heart, and spooned the wounded mass onto a doorstep of thickly buttered bread. The egg, therefore, did not play an integral part in the dish. For which I apologise, Mr Creagh.

The baked Provençal pepper with buffalo mozzarella and pesto (£6.50) was just the right temperature. Vegetables don't want to be microwave hot - soft, ripe Mediterranean flavours work best when they're warm. The only so-so starter on the menu was a gazpacho with fresh crab and avocado. The crab and avocado didn't taste like a happy couple, and would have left separately if I had given them a chance.

The only main course that didn't whet my appetite was the baked cod. Maybe it was me, maybe it was the cod, but we've clearly grown apart. These days I even find salmon a bit "yeah - so what?". Call it a mid-life crisis. I'll be charitable and say the pan-fried fish was sitting in a good, sharp circle of dressing. Which suggests that the kitchen has an eye on detail. But, like, whatever.

The rump of new season lamb (£13.95) looked better than it tasted. It reminded me of Adam Smith, who found a place in the Himalayas where they made pizza according to a cookbook. The only problem was, since they couldn't speak English - or lay their hands on buffalo mozzarella - they made something that looked like it did in the cookbook but tasted like something else. This lamb was like that.

The glazed belly of pork, with savoy cabbage, chorizo and black pudding (£12.50) was exquisite. But, to me, a chorizo is a coarsely ground pork sausage flavoured with garlic. It will streak scrambled eggs with its orange oils. It will make a thin broth feel hearty. It burns its imprint into a dish's very foundation. What I got looked like a cocktail sausage.

The pork went well with a side order of triple-cooked chips. The waiter's science rather fell apart (he told us the potatoes were boiled in water heated to 140 degrees) but the chips didn't. They were crisp on the outside, with a soft, pillowy centre. The idea felt very Heston Blumenthal. The best compliment our table could come up with was "they taste like somebody else's chips". Which is to say, better than your own.

The crème brûlée (£4.50) contained a splash of alcohol. And the deliciously bitter chocolate mousse sat on a lattice of black cherry. My guests were up in arms. They thought that Mr Creagh was gilding the lily. "You wouldn't want a dollop of chocolate in a glass of wine, would you?" they said. But "Why not?" I said. "Experiment a little." The good folk of Hampstead could do with livening up a little.

The Wells, 30 Well Walk, London NW3 (020-7794 3785)