A brief history of the menu: despite the menu being an inseparable component of modern dining, the menu was only invented in the mid seventeenth century (in France, where else?). Before then, if a restaurant had managed to get hold of a sack of potatoes, potatoes it was. If they’d made a load of pies, you’d get a pie.

The evolution of the menu has followed much the same pattern as the evolution of the Western waist. From two or three dishes on offer in the 1800s, restaurants began to compete with each other to see how many dishes they could cram onto a page. From one page it became two, from two, two hundred. Today, most menus look as though they must have been penned by some TV-deprived nineteenth century Russian novelist. Whereas the Western waist tends to resemble something that has been subject to nothing but TV dinners.

We’re so conditioned to believe that more is merrier, that when the menu arrived at Upstairs Downstairs, I felt swindled before I’d even started. What, they didn’t do Indian and Chinese? And where was the mezze and pizza that have practically become part of the pagination of contemporary a la carte?

The Upstairs Downstairs menu runs to six pages: five starters, 10 mains, five desserts. Not even the length of a Chekhov short story. And yet the menu contained so much that seemed worth eating. Which is surely the point. If the menu is massive, where’s the mastery? Serious diners want to be told what to eat.

Indeed, we were so engrossed in this miniscule menu that I hadn’t noticed that all the while Tom Jones had been belting out ‘Sex Bomb’ as loud as his Welsh lungs could manage on a life-sized screen over a spot-lit grand piano.

The restaurant itself is a curious blend of things, and rather interesting in itself. Part theatre, part Covent Garden courtyard, it attempts to bring the feel of the West End to the Middle East, and it does so successfully. We sat ‘outside’ which came replete with street lamps and up-market garden furniture, which was not at all unpleasant. I’m guessing that ordinarily you’d have a pianist and not Tom Jones Live In Las Vegas.

Upstairs Downstairs has recently employed a new French chef and has a new menu, so the food is a nod to the French. I ordered rare seared tuna in fennel crust, while my friend was taken with the smoked hammour pate. Both came promptly and were served with aplomb, which gave the meal a sense of occasion. I couldn’t resist stealing half the hammour, the taste of which was pitched perfectly. The tuna sat on a bed of petits pois prepared nicoise-style and as starters go was about as good as they get.

The main course consisted of seared seabream, and red beet and goat’s cheese ravioli. To the tune of Tom Jones’ ‘It’s Not Unusual’ the meals were served. But Tom Jones really didn’t have a clue. Food like this is unusual. Simple, straight-forward and stylish, the dishes were superb.

My friend, a glutton, went for a dessert; for me it was tea. The pear tarte tatin came on a glass plate with a shot of ice cream and made my pot of Lipton feel rather inferior.

By the time we reluctantly left, Tom Jones had worked himself into a fury and was shouting at us through the door ‘What’s New Pussycat?’ A great restaurant, with a brilliant chef, Mr Jones. That’s what’s new.

The bill (for two)
Smoked hammour pate BD4.500
Rare seared ahi tuna BD7.500
Red beet and goat’s cheese ravioli BD7.500
Seared seabream BD12.000
Pear tarte tartin BD4.000
Fresh mint tea BD1.500
2 Fresh lemon/mint juices BD2.800
The bill (incl tax/service) BD46.000