Degó

I’m nestled in a low-slung black leather booth opposite Jonesy, who, much to his dissatisfaction, is spotlit. Above us hang curious light fixtures that resemble hovering hot pink lipsticks. There are no windows in the basement room, and the restaurant is naked save for a quartet of ladies to my left.

Tucked away far from the madding crowds of Oxford Street in Portland House, Degó, an amalgamation of “degustazione” (tasting) and “osteria” (tavern), boasts walls covered with black and red mosaic tiles seemingly engaged in a frantic game of Tetris. Decked out like a sushi-serving Japanese-themed nightclub, it’s the strangest of surroundings for an Italian restaurant. Running with the osteria theme, they missed a trick by not playing to its strengths and going big on rustic charm.

Split between two floors, at street level a degustation bar serves a selection of wines by the glass, hand picked by Venetian head sommelier Massimo Mioli, and a mixture of charcuterie and antipasti from the Veneto’s throbbing heart. Nearly all the wines on the list are imported from Italy and stored in a humidity-controlled cellar. Downstairs, Dario Schiavo serves up an ambitious selection of dishes.

Having placed our order, Jonesy and I take lingering sips from our Italian-themed cocktails. My Aviation is exemplary: light, lemony and deliciously thirst quenching, it’s like showering in citrus. While waiting for our antipasti, the strangest dish I’ve ever encountered arrives at our booth, consisting of a piece of white bread cut into an isosceles triangle, resting on six small, halved tomatoes. Flummoxed as to its significance, we chomp on it dutifully.

Our ebullient, Italian sommelier Alexandra suggests we might like to try their specialty – a Franciacorta Cuvette Brut 2005. My first experience of the sparkler, made in the same way as Champagne, it glints gold in the generous glass and tastes deceivingly like the French fizz, sharing the same brioche notes. Noticing our delight, Alexandra beams and proclaims bubbles to be Degó’s point of difference.

Charmed by both the sommelier and the wine, I sit back, relaxed, and enjoy the theatre unfolding in front of me. My beef tartare is being prepared by our waitress on an archaic device involving a meat grinder. In it she flings capers, anchovies, onions, garlic, and anything else within arms length, then proudly presents the raw red medallion on a black slate. Soft as an earlobe, it tastes sensationally fresh, almost sashimi-like, and is enhanced by drops of fiery Tabasco. Jonesy’s poppy seed-flecked cod coins are less of a hit, erring on the rubbery side.

Fortunately, greater culinary discoveries are to follow. My primi piatti of homemade fettuccine with morel mushrooms arrives covered in a black blanket of summer truffles. So generous has the chef been, I can hardly see the pasta beneath the razor-thin shavings. The combination of the summer truffles and morels is hedonistic, the buttery pasta mixing seamlessly with the earthy mushrooms into a decadent whole. In another expert pairing from Alexandra, my Montenidoli Fiore Vernaccia di San Gimignano 2008 cuts confidently through the unctuous pasta. Meanwhile, Jonesy’s meat-filled tortellini with butter and sage is hailed a success, with both pasta dishes disappearing off our plates faster than a Ferrari in a high speed chase.

Gripped by existential musings and Jonesy’s tales of taming wild beasts in the South African outback, I barely notice our mains arrive. Mine, a confit of duck leg on a pea green duvet of rocket, avocado and pistachio, his, boned rabbit with veal and prune stuffing. Dressed in rose petals, my dish takes me back to Morocco, where they like to douse everything in rose water. While I appreciate the romanticism of the dish, nay, I can almost hear the Azan call to prayer resounding from the plate, it would have triumphed without the rose. The duck itself is tender and juicy, but rubbed with rose, it tastes like a wedding bouquet.

Dessert however, is an exiting affair. I opt for an ice cream trio comprising salted caramel, hazelnut and basil. The triptych arrives in three separate dishes. All are delightful, and help assuage the memory of munching on a rose garden. Alexandra completes a hat-trick with her final flourish – a 1980 Marsalsa, bottled before I was born. With a nose of roasted hazelnuts and a caramel palate balanced by lively acidity, it sings of Oloroso. Despite the dodgy décor, Degó is worth the detour for the wines alone. Served by knowledgeable staff with unbridled enthusiasm, each glass is a liquid history lesson.

Dego 4 Great Portland Street, London W1W 8QJ; Tel: +44(0)20 7636 2207

Tempo

On the surface Japanese and Italian cuisines have very little in common. But scratch a little deeper, and similarities emerge, from the preoccupation with fresh, seasonal, regional ingredients to the focus on simplicity and purity of flavour.

It seems fitting then, that Japanese chef Yoshi Yamada is at the helm of Tempo in Mayfair. An economics graduate, he worked for L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Japan, then cooked in various restaurants in Florence, Sorrento and Naples during a four-year stint in Italy before becoming sous-chef at the now defunct Corbin and King’s St Alban.

Decked out with tastefully upholstered (and pleasing to the touch) turquoise velvet chairs, wooden floors, glass-topped tables and marine-like round mirrors, Tempo's pared-down interiors allow the food to take centre stage. The restaurant, whose former incarnation was the less forward thinking and more peppermill-waving Italian establishment Franks, is part owned by hotelier Henry Tonga, who decided to open Tempo last summer rather than retire after the lease of his townhouse hotel 22 Jermyn Street came to an end.

The menu is divided into cicchetti (small, tapas-like plates), antipasti, pasta and risotto, and meat and fish. The cicchetti, priced between £2-4, originate from Venice, where they are served in traditional Venetian tapas bars, known as 'bàcari'. I tried the full spread on my visit, which included wild garlic prawns, hot as Hades Calabrian pork sausage, marinated peppers and beautifully bitter puntarelle flecked with apricot-coloured slithers of salted gray mullet roe. While amusing to the bouche, I felt we had barely scratched the surface of Yamada's potential.

Before I continue, I must make reference to the bread. In most restaurants bread serves to keep your palate entertained until the starters arrive, but at Tempo bread is an event. We were presented with a small basket heaving with treats, from fluffy, salt-strewn focaccia to heavenly grissini sticks, flecked with aniseed. Never before (and probably never again) have I got so worked up about bread. The savoury, twig-like sticks from Turin, rolled by Yamada that morning, had a slight sweetness from the aniseed and wonderful crunch. I munched my way through the entire offering in under a minute.

We moved swiftly on to calamari, which proved so light and grainy, that one bowl wasn't enough. Having been weaned on Spanish calamari, the dish felt naked without aioli. A quick request to the waitress, and a giant bowl filled with freshly-made garlic mayonnaise appeared. In the end it went largely undipped - the light, airy calamari working best with a simple lemon spritz rather than an aioli bath. The next dish (pictured) proved the culinary highlight: razor-thin slithers of Scottish beef, adorned with hazelnuts, parmesan, rocket and a glug of olive oil. So thin, fresh and flavoursome, it was almost sashimi-like, with Yamada's Japanese influence apparent in the dish. Lemony, light, and brought to life by the hazelnuts, it was a pleasure to eat.

Before the main event, we indulged in a pair of pasta dishes: wild boar pappardelle with chestnuts and parmesan, and Cornish crab linguine with chilli and lime. The former was rich, earthy, succulent, warming and utterly delicious. It made a perfect match for our smooth and approachable Barbera d'Alba 2008 from renowned Piedmont producer G.D. Vajra, with its spicy notes of black cherry, bramble fruits and black pepper. The linguine was perfectly al dente and had a lovely citrus lift from the limes, but, crab-light and lacking in bite, it was a little too dainty for its own good.

The main event for me was pan fried scallops with golden beetroot, chilli and lemon, and for my companion a mammoth grilled veal chop with spunta potatoes and peperonata. Lightly crispy on top, the meaty, silky-soft scallops were perfectly cooked and full of flavour, lifted by the zesty lemon sauce and tangy, crunchy blonde beetroot – my culinary discovery of the evening. Of the sides there was a hit and a miss, the hit being sublime olive oil mash, and the miss over-oily zucchine fritte.

Desert hit a high note with the best lemon tart I've ever experienced, recommended by the waitress as something of a Tempo institution. Served with a crème Brûlée-like crunchy top and perfectly crumbly pastry, the interior was creamy and so packed with zing, it tasted like lemon curd. I could have happily eaten the entire tart. The beauty of Tempo lies in its simplicity. From the finely tuned wine list featuring top boutique Italian producers, to the tasteful interiors and fresh food, there's nothing shouty or showy about Tempo. The restaurant is a lesson in refined elegance – an Ozu rather than a Fellini.

Tempo, 54 Curzon Street, London W1J 8PG, Tel: +44(0)20 7629 2742. A meal for two with wine costs around £100.