But fair dos to the comedy Frenchman — he was right. I have an understanding and enjoyment of food beyond the rudimentary, but way below the gastronomic standards required to make you a bona fide food buff. I would often spend hours pestering chefs for the answer to questions such as “Why is fish watery?”, “What does fridge burn on a piece of Cornish yarg look like?” and “When do you get off work?”

I do, though, show an interest in food trends, and I can just about get by on a table full of serious gastronomes without them laughing at me — too much. Take the current fixation with provenance. Nowadays, smart menus tell you that the poached chicken was lovingly reared by Reggie Johnson, or that the rocket salad comes from Secrett’s, in Surrey, which seems to be to market gardening what Dior is to handbags: a Secrett’s salad is a statement salad. I recently saw a woman at a Holland Park cocktail party turn to her hostess after being handed a mini burger and say: “Is the meat from Lidgate?” Even my mum, who lives on Dartmoor, likes to tell her guests that the meat comes from Rodney, whose meat is all good, local and humanely killed. How your shoulder of lamb died is now as important as how your winter coat is cut.

It was my dinner companion, the restaurateur Tom Etridge, who picked up on the fact that a restaurant called Origin was probably going to be about the sourcing of the ingredients; my Girls Aloud brain had not twigged, despite having sat there for half an hour eating olives before Tom and Ann Ceprynski, Matthew Williamson’s right-hand woman, turned up. The olives were the sweetest petits lucques, so the clues were there.

When we ordered, the waiter explained the sourcing concept as well as the concept that you eat several smaller courses (another fashionable dining trend). Despite all these concepts, he managed not to sound completely pretentious. You can have anything on the menu in starter size, and some of it as main courses. Origin would infuriate any male over the age of 40, particularly as there is no cheese board.

There is no sommelier, either (another concept?). The short, elegant wine list is designed to pair easily with the different foods you will be putting in your mouth, if you go with the whole “small portions of dishes with complex combinations” concept. As the menu has little red meat on it, it offers little Bordeaux and few thumping great reds (another reason not to bring Uncle Bunter here for a dirty great lunch — buffers hate concepts). We had an Alsace pinot blanc with delicious layers to it for £31.50, and a light Kiwi pinot noir for £40, which did, as promised, work with things such as veal and fish.

The place gets away with this smorgasbord of concepts thanks to warm, relaxed service and, I almost forgot to add, by serving wonderful food. I had Cornish crab ravioli with herb broth and tarragon oil, which appeared on the menu, as fashion would dictate, as “Crab with tarragon”. The filling had the lightness of perfect scrambled eggs, the crab filled the mouth with its huggingly rich flavour, while texture came from nicely chewy, delicately spiced shrimps. It had a heavenly quality.

Over the three small savoury courses we were encouraged to order, our dishes crisscrossed a bit. Tom liked the scallops with veal, but not as much as I enjoyed it. This was a rich, decadent combination, which seemed to work better in a small portion. Beef with carrots was braised to a deep, glossy brown, like a daube, but was a bit on the ragged side and less melting than would be perfect. Venison carpaccio with chestnut mousseline was a lovely pairing, but had far too much frilly salad garnish, the sort that gets caught in your throat, like hair. I found the white onion risotto with ceps unpalatably nutty, but that is a personal thing. Of several good puddings, I tried white chocolate parfait with a goat’s milk yoghurt, which stamped, as goaty things will, on the gentle chocolate, but was a fascinating flavour.

Adam Byatt is a talented chef, with instincts and skills way beyond the ordinary. He sits just below the chef dons at the top of the premier league — Tom Aikens, the Ramsay posse, the Roux brood, Heston God. We all suspected that he wants to be cooking more haute than this. But here is his problem: although the building is well placed in the heart of theatreland, the dining room is not blessed with great beauty. Structurally, it is a mezzanine box with piggy little windows down one side and a glass wall looking into an internal atrium at the end, so there is not much natural light. The interior designer has done her best to apply some artful cosmetics to a bit of an ugly face. It is painted a brave choice of dark blue and white, which breathes oxygen into the space; dark wood panels divide the restaurant from the bar, where the outline of tulips is picked out in studs on a black leather wall. It feels about right for the price, but try as it might, this room will never be David Collins seductive.

We sat at a big, round, comfortable banquette table, the sort of place where you can expand over dinner. This I like. I didn’t like the sharp little spotlight that bounced off my nose when I went back later in the week and sat at a table for two; it was uncomfortably like staring at the sun. The contemporary art, themed around things like flight paths and graffiti in graveyards, isn’t taxing, but it is interesting enough to want to have a peer and a think. Again, Uncle Bunter won’t dig it.

Add in a soundtrack of snooty electrogroove and the overall effect has aspects of a Brett Easton Ellis novel. This is a restaurant for young people that serves grown-up food. I’d like to think I’ve got five years left in me to look good here.

AA Gill returns next week

Origin

24 Endell Street, WC2; 020 7170 9200

Mon-Fri, noon-12.30pm and 6pm-10.30pm; Saturday, 5pm-10.30pm

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