KATY French goes green at the thought of eating sprouts, yet she's quite partial to a plate of raw beef. She equates the moral implications of wearing fur with that of wearing nylon tights, yet she's in her element when taking care of her aunt with Down's Syndrome. Katy French comes from a very privileged background, although she lists "lots of money" in her top five requirements when looking for a man.

She loves cleaning the insides of her cupboards in her spare time and loves the smell of bleach but she also worries that she'll never get around to writing that book about her "unifying theory of everything. . . and stuff".

In an age when British and American celebrities reveal anything and everything about themselves to garner publicity, our homegrown celebs usually go about their (show) business differently. Our famous bigwigs tend to take pride in keeping their private lives private. I mean, does anyone know where Bono buys his crayons or how Anne Doyle likes to unwind after reading the news? And does anyone really care? That was the state of play until Katy French recently took public displays of uninhibited honesty to what would be magenta-faced levels for most people. Even those media sluts who never seem to be out of the public eye winced at her revelations. From reading out personal text messages for Barry Egan to revealing the most intimate aspects of her broken relationship to the nation on Liveline, French hasn't just been airing her dirty laundry, she's been wearing it. Albeit with nice accessories.

This public soul-baring stuff is funny, in the same way that Irish punters continuing to patronise restaurants serving mediocre food badly at rip-off prices is funny.

So last week - just for a giggle, mind - I thought it would be an interesting opening to my review of Il Pomo D'Oro on South William Street to recount how I had asked the 23-year-old French to accompany me to her ex-fianc�'s restaurant. (PS: This restaurant was, up until a month ago, called 'Number 10'. The latest appellation is Il Pomo D'oro, and depending on how cunning a linguist you are, that can either mean 'The Golden Apple' or 'The Golden Knob'. I'll let you decide which is most apt. ) Anyway, clearly it was a ludicrous idea, a bit of a joke really, and she would turn me down, but I'd have an interesting quip about calling her for the review. Nobody is madcap enough to think it a good idea to visit their ex's (in this case Marcus Sweeney's) restaurant after receiving express indication that they are NOT welcome. Especially not with a member of the opposite sex, are they? As it happens Katy French is. I phoned her up and asked, truly expecting to be told where to get off, would she like to accompany me. To my initial panic she thought it was a "great idea!"

We arranged to meet in bar-of-themoment the South William. After a quick, yet sadly ineffective G&T to soften my jagged nerves, we sauntered down towards the lair of The Golden Knob. I was expecting Sweeney to be waiting for us in a swivel armchair with a Persian cat in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other. Within minutes we were upstairs, sitting at a table with a crisp linen napkin on our respective knees, eyeing the menu. The ex wasn't there.

Phew. Free of the fear of possible spatularelated injuries, I was back to the serious business of restaurant criticism.

The interior of Il Pomo D'Oro is, in a word, odd. There is an unfinished quality to it - here and there, a hole in a wall or ceiling with electrical wires protruding. In the far corner sits a small stage with five randomly positioned pot plants, as if the band that once played on it had somehow transmogrified into shrubs. Adorning one of the walls there is a carved lion's head surrounded by extravagant curlicues and flourishes, like a cross between the MGM and Versace logos. It was the type of thing you might expect a gay Saddam Hussein to have over his bed. Katy said she had picked it out and loved it; I thought it looked crass. Julio Iglesias singing "Ever and ever and ever and ever. . ." (Good God, that song bores me to tears) piped into the room in the background giving a feint 'We're on our honeymoon in Costa del Sol in 1987' vibe and sadly, much of the food gave off that vibe too.

To start, I had the calamari (Euro8.95) which wasn't bad. Katy had the carpaccio of beef (Euro9.50) which she loves and I thought was an admirable attempt at the dish. The beef was flavoursome, well seasoned, although the parmesan didn't have the requisite kick to make it a knock-out. Parmigiano reggiano may well have been used but the impression I got was that it had been shaved much earlier than when it had been used and had lost much of its flavour.

The wine list was a safe representation of the usual suspects; a frascati here, a couple of chardonnays there, a pinot grigio and a chianti or two. We had two glasses of the pinot grigio, which were fine.

Service was good: friendly, efficient and never overbearing. The one thing I would comment on though was the fact that we had at least four different servers; a small quibble but worth mentioning nonetheless.

For mains - and this is where it all went wrong, for me at least - my choice was pesce spada garibaldi (Euro22.50), char-grilled swordfish in a lemon sauce with tomatoes and capers served with basil mash. The problem with this dish was that, although when done well swordfish is a delicately flavoured, vaguely sweet and meaty fish, this really had zero effect on my taste buds, apart from a virulent salty assault.

Overcooked and over seasoned was my impression.

"More water please!"

The basil mash was dry and tepid. The now visibly calmer Ms French, although still receiving plenty of text messages from Mr Sweeney to stop her from completely relaxing, ordered saltimbocca nostra (Euro22.50), described as veal topped with fresh sage, parma ham and buffalo mozzarella cooked in its own jus.

'Saltimbocca' means 'jumps in the mouth';

Sadly this particular version rather slumped in the gob. I felt the parma ham was too chewy and the 'jus' verged on the gelatinous. Presentation had a long way to go too. It reminded me of three. . . I won't say what it reminded me of - let's just say the presentation was not pretty.

Neither of us finished our mains and moved swiftly on to dessert. We ordered profiteroles and cheesecake.

Both seemed to have originated in a factory, bought-in rather than handmade. You can tell instantly when something has spent more time being nurtured by machine than by human hands.

Unremarkable, the pair. We both finished with a reasonable espresso each before heading out into the night.

IL POMO D'ORO South William Street Dublin 2 Telephone: 01 6718767 THE BILL 4 glass pinot grigio Euro 28 2 espresso Euro 5 1 carpaccio Euro 9.50 1 calamari Euro 8.95 1 saltimbocca nostra Euro 22.50 1 pesce spada garibaldi Euro22.50 1 mixed salad Euro 4.50 1 cream cheesecake Euro 6.95 1 profiteroles Euro 6.95 TOTAL Euro 114.85