I can think of a few places that I've been to lately where the food has been better than the surroundings - the sort of place that appeals to real foodies, people who care much more about what they're eating than where they're eating it. It's a point of view that I have some sympathy with, a lot of small restaurants on the continent have precisely this set up. But it got me thinking, what if the opposite is the case? What sort of people are likely to prefer form over content? I haven't found the answer to this question, but perhaps I'm a little closer as of this week.

The Morrison Hotel is a place you hear a lot about; it's trendy and chic and attracts a lot of media attention. I haven't been there at all until this week, and much of what I've been told and have read was exactly as described. Firstly it doesn't seem like a hotel when you walk in, it seems more like a very big and very smart bar. That's mainly because that's exactly what it is. There may be rooms here, but it's pretty plain that accommodation is a small part of the attraction. There's no sign of the usual porter's desk or check-in desk when you walk in, just two large bars; one on the left and one on the right. The other immediate impression is of design. It's very clear that no money has been spared in the execution of that design in the Morrison.

Rectangular seems to be the theme of the bar where we sat. Tables, stools, armchairs, windows, door-frames, mirrors, coasters, lamps and lampshades are all without a curve. The odd chess set completes this effect. Against that, there's a gentle curve to the bar counter and the huge pillars that divide the lobby are round, as indeed were the glasses we drank from. Off-white walls are beautifully lit to give a sense of style and comfort to the place.

After an aperitif with some friends we went down a few steps to the restaurant, which is called Halo. The design is carried though into this room as well. High-ceilinged and well-proportioned, the room is visually divided by a curved upper-level dining area where the smokers get to sit. It took me a while to notice that what a casual glance had persuaded me was a dividing wall, was in fact a huge slate monolith - vaguely reminiscent of the one in Kubrick's 2001. This is visually a very impressive room, with thought and attention evidently given to even the smallest things. Upholstered chairs with velvet anti-Macassars surround goodsized wooden tables. Cruets, cutlery and crockery are all pretty to look at; simple, almost Japanese-style flower arrangements in huge crystal bowls abound; large trees grow from terracotta pots and the back wall is dominated by a striking triptych. It's the kind of room that repays with interest a careful look around.

So you get the idea, this is an elegant space and it puts you into a receptive mood for the good things to come. Now couple this with a very professional and courteous American waiter and you can see why Susan Morley, who was with me, was getting excited about the meal to come. Sitting as we were on the upper level we had a fine view of the room and every now and then something else would catch Susie's artist's eye, eliciting little cries of appreciation. We were given the bills of fare and I started on the wine list.

Looking through it I began to feel a sense of discomfort growing in me. I was looking at a list that appeared at first glance to have been put together by some kind of random process. The only unifying factor seemed to be that these were not just very unusual wines, but wines from unusual places. In my experience lists like this are usually constructed like this so that you can't make comparisons with prices on other lists, and the prices against these wines confirmed this suspicion. It's an expensive list, and one where even with a wide experience of wines, you'll almost certainly have to end up with a wine you've never heard of before, let alone tasted. After much searching I found a white Italian wine at £17, a Vernaccia di San Giminiano which I knew, so I ordered that.

And so to the menu. There are interesting things on it, with starters around the £6-7 mark and main courses running up to £20. Susie picked a salmon sushimi and followed that with King prawns, while I chose the sushi plate to start and then a special of venison for my main course. Good home-made breads kept the hunger at bay until our starters arrived, both of which were very good. A feeling of well-being hung between us as we savoured the food, the ambience and the excellent service. Given that, the main courses seemed doubly disappointing. I could list a dozen faults between the two dishes, but I'll concentrate on a couple. Rule one in designing a menu is to ensure that the food can be eaten with ease. Susie's dish of prawns did not fit that bill. Unshelled prawns served in a hot liquid sauce - even when there's a finger bowl provided - means you can't shell them without burning your fingers. Someone had obviously failed to think through this somewhat obvious fact - an example of obtrusive bad design. My venison was surrounded by potato gnocchi flavoured with truffle oil, which should have been wonderful. Instead the gnocchi had been made with so much flour that they had become as hard as bullets and just as indigestible, rendering them no more than decoration on the plate.

All of which prompts this musing: why, when so much effort has been spent on the form, could not a little more have been spent on the content? The Morrison has, in the Halo, one of the classiest dining rooms in Dublin and it seems a shame that it's not fulfilling it's full potential. We finished our meal with a really good chocolate fondant, a signature dish, which went a long way towards restoring my good humour. I was left with one other thought: if the service had not been so good and the waiter not so affable, I'm sure I would have left the Halo feeling rather disappointed, whereas I didn't. It's an excellent example of the power of a good waiter to make a difference to your enjoyment of a meal. The bill came to £88.95, to which I added a 10pc tip.