The aim of Fork — and it's an aim planned with subtlety and great cunning — is to turn Cape Town into a city of mid-western Americans, vast lumps of people swelled to the gills with food. And while I've rumbled their nefarious scheme, it doesn't make much difference, for by the time you're far enough into the menu to realise, it's too late, and you're well on the way to a larger wardrobe.

Fork sits quietly in the lower end of Long Street, two storeys of low lighting housing a dazzling array of tapas. And therein lies the problem: each dish appears deceptively small, encouraging you to order from the menu with reckless abandon. One more slice of fillet? A mere mouthful of tuna? It's hardly going to fill you up, surely…br>
They don't offer a stretcher to ferry people down the stairs and back to their cars, but that's surely a matter of time; a guilty reflection upon the bill (pretty close to a summary of the full menu, to be honest) reveals just how enthusiastically Fork's array of tapas was attacked on a decadent Saturday night.br>
The menu is divided up into categories — vegetarian, fish, meat, salads and dessert, plus a 'while you're thinking' category, more evidence of the restaurant's determination to fill you up. Not that you really need the opening volley (smoked salmon rolls with dill and goats cheese — with a touch of caviar for good measure — are hard to resist, I concede); there's more than enough to come.

Tagliolini, clustered around basil pesto and fried, is simple vegetarian fare well done; more substantial are two pasta rolls filled with mushroom and emmenthal, and lathered in tomato sauce. The excitement kicks in when you venture into more carnivorous territory, however. Pick of a great bunch: slivers of kudu fillet, with the husky, smoky breath of venison, balanced on finely mashed potato infused with orange, the citrus zest a stroke of genius. If I were a kudu, I couldn't think of a better way to go.

There's a playful element to the tapas selection, as there can be with a menu that people will pick and choose from. Ostrich fillet wrapped around asparagus and emmenthal, with mustard and sweet chilli, comes off a treat; beef fillet with mozzarella and tomato (perfectly topped with a caper) disappears just as quickly; and Moroccan lamb meatballs spark a scramble (Fork must have seen some splendid food fights), and come in plenty of tomato sauce, with crostini to mop it all up.

North African, Italian… and a strong Eastern influence as well, one that's not confined to the Yasser Arafat headgear that takes the place of more traditional napkins. Lamb chops grilled with cumin aren't easy to divide, but don't let that put you off — simply order double, and enjoy the wisp of cumin that drifts across the palate. Magnifique.

And if that's not enough, the squares of tuna loin, seared on the outside and beautifully raw inside, come with a novel but surprisingly appropriate companion — a cannellini bean salad. That's the pick of the fish, although the almond crusted Norwegian salmon is also worth a try, the deep flavour of the almonds brought out in the cooking. The only mild disappointment on the menu was monkfish sosatie, cooked a little too long, and too dry as a result.

If Fork's menu is long and varied, then the wine list is also novel, wines grouped by region rather than cultivar. It's a different touch, but what lets the list down is the stock to back it. The Jacques Bruyere Bon Courage was available only after the waiter checked up on it; from there, both Anura and La Couronne merlot were out of stock, and a hurried attempt by the waiter to suggest an alternative that was available, masked further shortages — no Muratie Ansela, leaving a bottle of Cloof's (admittedly excellent) Bordeaux blend.

The cellar needs a little work, then (two from five on a Saturday night is a poor effort), but it's the only real gripe — other than the evil objective to lull you into gluttony by serving everything in harmless looking portions. The food adds up, particularly if you try a very good sticky toffee pudding, and a fair tiramisu (the banana and cream beignets, going the way of the wine, were out of stock); 12 courses and a couple of bowls of fries later (what were we thinking with the fries?), and I could feel an American accent coming on. Sort out the wine list, and they'll be just about perfect; unless you've got cast iron self-control, however, don't expect to eat for at least a week afterwards.