Bistro Prego, Wales

By CLARE OGDEN - Wednesday, January 10, 2007

There were folk dithering outside Bistro Prego when we rolled up last weekend. They were peering at the menu in the window, wondering whether to give it a go or head for a curry.

I really hope they followed us in - we had a table in the back room so I couldn't see - because they surely would have enjoyed it as much as we did. Maybe Monmouthites (Monmouthians? Monmouthers?) are unaccustomed to the treats Prego has to offer. Despite some lovely stuff on the menu - roast woodcock, braised oxtail, pan-fried halibut with mint, capers and lime - people seemed mostly to be ordering well-done steak.

Open barely six weeks, Bistro Prego sits where Bob's Restaurant used to be. Bob has apparently headed to fresh pastures in Newport, and his former senior waitress, Gail Carpenter, is now maîtresse d'. She moved from table to table, chatting to customers about the menu and future plans for the place: hanging some art is next on the agenda, which will add a bit of boldness to the clean, simple decor. There are already the original, so-dark-they're-almostblack beams, the occasional bare-brick wall and metal pails of fresh flowers.

Some very tall, spindly rosemarystudded bread-sticks stood in a glass vase and we crunched with gusto before it dawned on us, horribly, that we might in fact be eating the table decoration. I am very pleased to report that they were indeed appetisers. In the kitchen is Steve Robbins, who trained under Franco Tarushchio, and the menu features modern British food with some very rustic Italian flourishes. It's also hugely seasonal: for my main course, I had saddle of hare with braised red cabbage, chestnuts and cranberries (£10.50). The hare was almost liver-like in its dense, meaty velvetness, and four ruddy slices of it were paired juicily with tart, bursting cranberries, a pile of jewel-hued cabbage and a peppery handful of unexpected watercress. A couple more chestnuts wouldn't have gone amiss but, otherwise, it was glorious.

Some very tall, spindly, rosemarystudded breadsticks stood in a glass vase and we crunched with gusto before it dawned on us, horribly, that we might in fact be eating the table decoration

The only let-down of our combined six dishes - along with the draught that whistled around the room from time to time - was my starter of vincisgrassi (£6.75, also available as a main course for £12.75), described on the menu as 18th-century baked pasta with porcini mushrooms, Parma ham and truffle. It's a very rich sort of lasagne, unique to the Marche region (which, if you imagine Italy to be a leg, lies roughly along the calf) and first committed to record in Il Cuoco Maceratese by Antonio Nebbia, the Gordon Ramsay of 1784. The traditional version includes chicken giblets for a right royal meatiness, but mine tasted mostly of stodge.

The problem seemed to lie in the sauce, which hadn't had the flouryness cooked out. A dish with so many pasta layers needs a certain lightness to make it work, and this was far too heavy, masking the flavour of the lovely mushrooms and what little Parma ham there was. Never mind, everything else was great, including a whole section of starters that we didn't even touch: griddled squid with a salad of chickpeas, chilli and mint; home-cured bresaola with rocket and Parmesan; speck (smoked ham) with figs and balsamic. Instead, my friend had tagliolini with crab, chilli, parsley and cherry tomatoes (£7, or £13.50 for a main course).

It was fragrantly note perfect, from smidgens of pale crab meat to squidgy, juicy tomatoes, and easily comparable to the real deal in a Bay Of Naples trattoria. A massive portion, too. He followed this with a piece of rare Herefordshire rib-eye (£15.50), the kind of well-hung, properly seasoned steak that plasters a grin of pleasure on your face between bites. It came with slightly underdone roasties, wrapped tastily in Parma ham and sage.

For puddings (all at £5, with cheese for £6), an intriguing sounding grappa panacotta and winter fruit compote with cinnamon ice cream were pipped by marsala semifreddo, a deliciously subtle rendering of the honeyish dessert wine. Sticky toffee pudding with butterscotch sauce and vanilla ice cream, meanwhile, oozed buttery comfort. Also suitably cosseting for a cold, rainy night were a perfect espresso (£2.25 each) and the house Valpolicella (£3 glass), which was perkier than that scene in La Dolce Vita where Anita Ekberg swishes through the Trevi Fountain.

Alas, Monmouth doesn't even have a fountain, and buxom Italian beauties are unlikely to be sashaying through Agincourt Square any time soon. What Monmouth does have, though, is a great new bistro that's a champion of local, seasonal produce and intelligent, unfussy cooking; Prego will also be opening as a hotel with eight ensuite rooms in March. I'd stop dithering outside and bag a table very soon.