Restaurant review, Bubbledogs, London.

Here's the latest from the random restaurant concepts generator. Champagne and hot dogs. Simple, and, on the face of it, brilliant. Who doesn't like champagne – or hot dogs? OK, so you may not necessarily think of eating them together, but some clever people have gone to the trouble of launching a whole restaurant based on the combination, so it's got to work, right?

The name – Bubbledogs – is undeniably catchy. And judging by the buzz, these are the hottest dogs in town. A small queue was forming when we pitched up for lunch, in an increasingly foodie part of London's Fitzrovia still preening from the recent arrival of critics' darling Dabbous. I didn't love Dabbous, but it's impossible to get a table there until some time in the next century. Bubbledogs, by contrast, doesn't take bookings at all, as is the modern way – at least not for parties under six.

Which is why we found ourselves with our backs to a rather fab room, perching awkwardly at a tiny shelf overlooking the kitchen staircase – not a table as such, more a pelmet, about wide enough to hold a menu and a couple of glasses. Behind us, it was all post-industrial coolness – bare bricks and rough planking and reclaimed fittings. In front of us, there was a wall of framed dog cartoons and some waiters running up and down.

We immediately realised we'd made a category error. Bubbledogs isn't a restaurant, and it certainly isn't the place to come for a lingering lunch and a proper chat. It's a wine bar – or, more specifically, a champagne bar – with some rather nice hot dogs attached. The focal point of the intimate room is a splendid copper-topped bar, just visible through a wall of men in suits. Beers and cocktails are served, but the deal here is the 30-odd champagnes on offer, all from independent grower-producers, and good value compared to the grande marques.

I'd invited the writer/performer Emma Kennedy, in part to toast her unexpected – and at that stage top-secret – place on the medals podium of this year's Celebrity Masterchef. If ever there was an occasion for a glass of champagne, this was it. "I couldn't help overhearing that you're celebrating," murmured a voice at my shoulder. We froze. "It's her birthday…" I gasped. Any attempt to drag out of Emma whether she'd actually won gold was soon abandoned, in the face of a blast of waiterly attention so relentless it was like being caught in a leaf blower.

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