64 Goodge Street, London

The finest sight a Scotchman ever sees, opined Doctor Johnson, is the high road which takes him to London. OK, Sam, let's consider that hypothesis. For you it would have involved a back breaking 10 day ordeal on a stagecoach, with or without calling cards from Dick Turpin and chums. Perhaps you made it by sailing ship.

Today's options? Being crammed into Edinburgh Airport security three hours in advance, to be deposited somewhere west of Ruislip miles from your destination. Or plunged into a cattle class tube with screaming children on LNER's finest. Think you can do better in first class, at prices that would bring a tear to a glass eye? Quite pleasant at one time, with generous catering to while away the signal failure outside Peterborough. Tried it recently? One item only from a so called brunch menu. A bacon roll sans butter and with no knife to spread your brown sauce. Coffee an hour later, and not a snifter of drink until you're within sneezing distance of King's Cross.

So why am I still drawn to the place? And why, a few weeks ago did I opt to spend less than 48 hours there to celebrate a major milestone? Well, Caravaggio had something to do with it, but food was the main draw. Next week we'll read about the big picture, but let me tell you that today's feature was certainly no B movie.

The Woodhead Group must be perilously close to becoming a chain. This is their fourth venture, opened just a year ago. I believe that chef Stuart Andrew, who has been with them since the outset a decade or so ago, mans the stoves here.

It's fair to say that Stuart and his team have significantly more imagination than the team behind the naming of their venues. Thus we have Portland in Great Portland Street, Clipstone in Clipstone Street, and 64 Goodge Street - well, you can guess where.

The room looks like one of those timeless, back street places in Paris which you can stumble into if you're really, really lucky. In fact it was previously a travel agency. The Parisian patina was created from scratch by a very talented designer who clearly understands that less is more. We dined with the Former Brewing Giant.

That alone can be the reason for a slight memory haze, though we were surprisingly restrained by our normal standards. I never write anything down, so I've forgotten the name of the principal lady who served us. I recall her as a paragon: L describes her as ditsy, citing the wrong food being delivered, and a cancelled dish arriving. Come to think of it, she did proudly present us with two lethal looking dry Martinis ordered by the high powered sounding Australians next door. Not for the first time, the trouble and strife may have a point.

The menu is a wee bit confusing, the savoury part having three sections. I had thought they were following the Clipstone model, but it's impossible to work out where Snacks stop and Starters begin. (Since writing this I have read the online menu where they describe the first two sections as Hors d'oeuvre and First Courses. Clearly saving ink on the night of our visit.) But who cares? There were brioche fingers with chicken liver parfait. The smoked cod's roe tartine actually involved more fingers. Digital delights all.

From the next section I remember duck sausage and a lentil vinaigrette and red mullet with pistou, citron confit and squid. Or am I imagining the latter? By the time you get to mains you are entering saucier heaven. Don't enter this kitchen unless you've done a long, Francocentric apprenticeship. And this ain't a one sauce fits all domain. A simple velouté with the assisette de légumes. A proper sauce vierge with the hake and crab. This should be the simplest sauce of all - no cooking involved - but I've encountered horrid parodies of it many times.

Sauce Américaine (probably should be called Armoricaine, but let that pass) adorned the turbot. Fish stock, tomato, white wine, brandy - you know the sort of thing. Sauce charcutière was a new one on me. Made with the off cuts of the charcuterie board, said our waitress. Two issues about that. Firstly, no charcuterie on the menu. Secondly, it's made with onions, white wine, mustard and cornichons. In other words, complementing your saucisson (or in this case your côte de porc), not made of it. Ballotine of chicken can be a dull thing. Not here. Expecting Pommes Anna to be a delicate wee side dish with some thin overlapping slivers of spud, we stupidly ordered two portions, receiving two massive dishes of something approximating dauphinoise without the cream.

That rendered pud quite impossible, though I nearly succumbed to a Last Temptation in the form of a passing Paris Brest, a large round confection of choux pastry, praline and cream. As proof of my new found maturity brought on by advancing years we decided not to move on to a neighbouring establishment, but I think we enjoyed another bottle of something for the road.

Well filled, well rounded and happy. That's what you get when you dine chez Woodhead, both your person and your memories.