Tricky to get a side of old-fashioned charm with your ethically-sourced scallops at The Northall

When the rain comes down in London, it has a marvellous habit of washing away the present. The water drowns out crass modern shop fronts and their Victorian façades come into focus.

On one such night, the former 19th century Metropole hotel welcomed me like a grand old ship. Berthed on the corner of Whitehall Place, its arch-windowed nose pointing straight towards the Thames.

Tripping up the stone steps of the now ‘Corinthia Hotel’, my slightly damp face was ready for an evening of elegance. Just inside the revolving door, my husband sat at a cream marble bar enveloped in a sea of formidable interior design. There were few signs of the old Metropole among the mirrored panels, back-lit glass shelves and the vast metallic-gold chandelier swaying gently above his head.

After a swift drink, we moved into The Northall restaurant: a classical sweeping room blessed with tall arched windows overlooking central London on two sides. On the outside you imagine creaking leather seats, the whisper of glamorous secrets and repealed anti-smoking laws. But on the inside, a bold reinterpretation of glamour awaits, with more mirrored panels, bright-white columns, spoked brass light fittings, a golden brown banquette and glinting movie-star staircase stretching up to the mezzanine.

Faced with this unrelenting neoclassical visual assault, it was tricky to concentrate on the food.

In striking contrast to the design, chef Garry Hollihead’s understated menu channels the spirit of a more rustic heritage.

And the ingredients are so carefully sourced, and meticulously labelled, you know it would be wrong to blame the kitchen if something were to be amiss. Better to go back to Secretts Farm in Surrey, according to the menu, to complain about your leeks.

Luckily the food is delightful, so no need.

I should say, my face fell, initially, at the size of my scallops starter. Then, after one bite, I realised I am a bad, superficial person.

I got over it.

That is, until a ordinary-looking main course — a warm confit of fillet of Loch Var salmon and soused oranges — arrived. And I was again humbled. It was invigorating, surprising and satisfying.

Only the dessert was disappointing — a Cox’s apple chiboust that looked fab, but required boltcutters to get through the biscuit base. I’m looking forward to the day that a farm in Pembrokeshire starts growing cakes. Until then, I think I’ll stick to cheese.

Although I’d forgiven the idealistic food that forces customers to taste before they judge, sitting in that over-lit semi-circle, I wasn’t keen to linger. Hollihead clearly believes that British food speaks for itself, with a little encouragement. It’s a pity the interior designers didn’t consider giving the building similar treatment?