Naming your new restaurant after a French tragedian like Racine is a brave move. You might get the wrong clientele, a parade of the lovelorn and psychotic, looking for the perfect setting in which to assassinate their departing lovers. Who knows on London's Brompton Road? They're a highly strung bunch up there. It might be all scarves by Hermès and strappy shoes by Manolo Blahnik, but I'm certain some of those Knightsbridge women are capable of murder.

Let us assume the name is less a come on to the homicidal and more of a declaration of intent. Forget your lemon grass. Forget your seared tuna and your sashimi of haddock. This is a French place. It serves sturdy French dishes the way you always hope they will be. Everything about Racine screams sturdy: the dark wood floor, the deep brown leather banquettes, the simple use of mirrors. The chef, Henry Harris, is a grown up who knows one end of a stove from the other. Eric Garnier, who runs front of house, is equally experienced. Together they have created an establishment that somehow manages to make the business of running a restaurant look so very simple. You offer dishes people want to eat. You charge reasonable amounts of money for them. You serve them with good humour. I think I'm in love.

Starters are around £5, main courses either side of £10. (At lunchtime there's a three-course menu at £15.) I started with a chicken liver pté, which was musky and coarse and reminded me of the ingredients from which it came. That meatiness was offset by a sprinkling of sweet jelly and, to one side, a pot of crisp cornichon. My companion, the fine novelist Linda Grant who knows a fair bit about sensory experiences, started with the chilled tarragon and lemon soup. It was sharp, silky and beautiful to look at. Bobbing on the surface were three ice cubes holding drops of olive oil within their dimpled ends. Simple but effective.

My main course of Marmite Dieppoise - a light fish stew of mussels, clams, squid and white fish - had a powerful depth of flavour without being overwhelming. Linda's lamb chops, delicately trimmed of the extraneous, came with a pleasing pile of peas, bacon and shallots.

I finished with a Mont Blanc (a heap of meringue, cream and grated marron glcé - how could those ingredients fail?) and Linda had a peach mousse which boasted a ripe, floral end. We drank a glass each of a Provençal Rosé from a list that starts at £10.50 a bottle and we were very happy.

Any criticisms? The chips could have been crisper, but then they can always turn the heat up on the oil. Other than that it was, as Linda said, 'exactly what you want a restaurant to be'.

And none of the other diners tried to kill each other, which was nice. As Arnold Schwarzenegger once said, I'll be back.