Bristol is a bit of a proverbial curate's egg, it walks the line between appearing vaguely urbane and sometimes just a little bland. But, there are some fine shops; though not enough of them. There are some chic bars; perfectly decent for the first month of opening, but usually soon deteriorate and lose their initial bloom. There is the Hippodrome, in whose auditorium the RSC or English National Ballet may occasionally rear their dainty heads, but for the most part one will be faced with a gaggle of soap star has-beens in gaudy Cinderella re-hashes.

As far as restaurants go in Bristol there are a few very decent ones, but not enough. There is, of course, a sprinkling of perfectly acceptable eateries where the Porsche-driving, rugby shirt-clad daahlings over-indulge every Friday on Veuve Cliquot and vanity, but not many that can compete with other so-called 'capitals of culture' in the UK.

Of course, in saying this I except Michael Caines at the Marriot Hotel on College Green. This resplendent beacon of gastronomy aptly and amply compensates for any other culinary shortcomings.

The hotel itself regularly provides refuge for prime ministers, pop stars and dignitaries. The restaurant's Moet and Chandon Bar and Terrace harbours the finest vintage wines and champagnes in the city. The neo-classic Georgian dining room ranks among the most beautiful settings in which I have ever eaten, and boasts a line of balconies on all sides more than worthy of a love-sick Juliet. What light through yonder window breaks?

Well, as a pre-starter, a penny-sized tuna tartare, perfumed with horseradish, and a thimble of ambrosial asparagus soup, exquisite little morsels to excite all the necessary membranes before the piece de resistance. My starter, a ballotine of foie gras, was smoother than a cashmere codpiece. Milady was equally chuffed with her scallops with pea puree, moistened with a lime-green mint broth. Succulent and fresh, this was a dish to poison yourself for. In this case the poison was a 2004 Vacheron Sancerre, crisp and tart enough to stand up to the sweetness of the scallops.

Mains came by way of roast cod with leeks, wild mushrooms and chive butter sauce; the fish was firm in texture, but yielded well to the fork, and the sauce worked beautifully, and was neither overpowering nor rich. I chose a roast fillet of beef with pommes puree and red wine sauce; the fillet came as exactly as asked, rarer than a hen's tooth, and the pommes puree on which it sat was unctuously smooth. It came with a roasted shallot, which was more a confection than an allium, beautifully caramelised and sticky, and the dish was punctuated with crunchy asparagus tips. These were some of the finest main courses I have ever encountered in the south west.

The wine list is as extensive as it is well-crafted; many bottles are available by the glass, or, even better, in half bottles. We drank a 2001 Chateau Gaubert, a delightful cabernet which was recommended as an accompaniment to the beef by our attentive waiter, and its tannic notes and hints of cherry stood up boldly to the richness of the beef fillet.

I am rarely thrilled by desserts in the city, having been the victim of the ubiquitous acrid crème brûlée that is the stalwart of Bristol pudding menus, but here they have broken the mould, serving the likes of lemon tart with lemon confit sorbet, and I noticed that chef here shares my liking for a plate of one main ingredient served three ways; for the oestrogen-filled among you why not try the trio of chocolate, which comes with hazelnut and milk chocolate parfait, dark chocolate mousse and white chocolate ice cream; for the less indulgent there is a rather exciting assiette of rhubarb, with a jelly and saffron custard, soufflé and sorbet.

There is no doubt that Michael Caines himself is at the helm of south west cooking. He is becoming increasingly well-known, and his restaurant empire is rapidly expanding, with a new venture, Abode, just up and running in Glasgow. What's more, he actually seems like a thoroughly decent and likeable chap (something of a rarity among chefs at his level).

At the Marriott, head chef Ian Matfin masterfully oversees operations in the owner's absence; he comes from a two-Michelin star founding, and this is certainly evident in the food.

The evening I spent at Michael Caines could not have been improved upon. The service was attentive, without being intrusive; the setting was almost heavenly; the food was utterly sublime. The attention to detail at this restaurant is second to none. It feels like it should be in London. In fact, when I stepped out of the front door into the unforgiving Bristol night I almost pinched myself to see if I was dreaming.