Eating Out: Offal delights in Soho

Richard Corrigan is variously described as the chef's chef, or the foodies' chef, both of which boil down to the fact that for some reason he has never become a star name, but remains something of an insider's secret. This may be to do with his nomadic kitchen life-style, always on the move, never staying anywhere long enough for his fame to spread outside an inner circle. It may also be that he doesn't care to court fame in the way that is fashionable among chefs these days.

Since I've never had the pleasure of meeting him, I cannot pretend to understand the reason for his brilliant, acclaimed semi-obscurity. For all I know, he may even now be preparing the first in a series of "Corrigan cooks ..." that will blast all other television chefs into oblivion. I rather hope not, for at last I have eaten at one of his restaurants, after years of almost going here and almost going there, and never quite making it. At last, I can count myself among those who will follow him from one restaurant to another without question. I have discovered Richard Corrigan's food for myself, and I am a convert.

I missed him at Fulham Road, Mulligan's and The Barbican Centre, but tracked him down at last in his latest habitat, Lindsay House in Soho, close by Kettner's which I used to frequent when I was a young girl about town almost two decades ago. What a dismaying thought ... and one that I tried to ignore as we stood on the steps of the Georgian house that does a very good job of not looking at all like a restaurant.

In those intervening years, the razzmatazz of the restaurant world has grown and grown - style, food and big names are what it is all about. What a pleasure it is now to escape for a while from all that, to a place that has all the discretion of a private club, without sacrificing cool white style, and fine eating. A waiter opens the door and ushers you into one of the small dining rooms, with its white walls, little dabs of gold here and there, modern paintings and bare wooden floor. For a few hours, Soho and traffic seem a million miles away.

It's the food that makes the reincarnated Lindsay House (it has been in existence for years, though never very well known) such a marvellous find (for those of us who have never before caught up with Corrigan, that is). My choices were inevitable - I can never resist anything with squash in it and I love offal, one of this chef's passions, which made ordering simple.

The little turret of butternut mousse that trembled in the centre of a small sea of mussels, spinach and golden broth seduced me instantly with its baby-bottom smoothness and deep sweet nuttiness. Slurped down with a lick of the salty broth and a fat orange mussel, it disappeared with indecent speed. My cousin Lucy tucked into a smoked eel salad with equal gusto, delighted with the crisp deep-fried beetroot and parsnip crisps that tumbled with the greenery, all harmonised with a walnut oil dressing. Chewy breadrolls mopped up the juices on both our plates very nicely indeed and yes, we would love a couple more, thank you.

And now for the offal - what bliss, if you happen to like the stuff. My cushion of risotto, streaked with Savoy cabbage, was laden down with devilishly tender little veal's kidneys, cooked so lightly that they retained a soft, almost jelly-like texture. As contrast, crisp strips of pig's ear coated in breadcrumbs straddled the lot. I would defy anyone (bar vegetarians, I suppose), to taste these and then honestly say that pig's ears are disgusting. Like most things they are not, as long as they are cooked well. I was introduced to them as a child in France, where the village butcher sold them pre-cooked. My mother was told to coat them in breadcrumbs and fry or grill, then serve with mustard or piquant Sauce Gribiche. She did just that, frequently, and we all adored them, and so did the occasional squeamish British guest, often quite against his will.

Meanwhile Lucy was valiantly tackling what turned out to be the meal's lowest point: a confit of rabbit leg with fried sweetbreads and colcannon, a blast from Richard Corrigan's Irish roots. The colcannon was first-rate, the sweetbreads excellent, but the rabbit was dry, as it has a tendency to be even if it hasn't been subjected to the dehumidifying "confit" process. It desperately needed a mollifying sauce. No such luck. Curiously, we were also given a free-floating dish of mashed potato, which seemed a trifle unnecessary, given the sturdiness of both our main courses.

Any disappointment on Lucy's part was sluiced away with a single mouthful of dessert. She ordered the steamed orange and walnut pudding, which admittedly did look somewhat lavatorial in its cylindrical brownness, but made up for that ten-fold with its marvellous taste and moist, melting crumb. My pudding sent me spiralling into ecstasy. A brace of warm madeleines, fragrant with scented spices and dotted with sultanas, matched with a salad of orange segments and new moons of peeled fresh date, a sharpish orange syrup to balance the sugar, and a scoop of Neal's Yard unpasteurised cream. Unadulterated heaven on a plate.

There is an admirable list of wines by the glass - very welcome these days, when most of us need to be able to use our heads to some extent of an afternoon. We came out of the Lindsay House on a high anyway, and it wasn't anything to do with our lone glass of wine apiece. The food isn't perfect, but it is confidently different and inspired, and when it works, which is most of the time, it explains absolutely why Richard Corrigan is so beloved of those in the know. I'm delighted to be able to count myself among them - better late then never - and I can't wait to go back.