Telephone: 020 7499 0099
Address: Gordon Ramsay at Claridge's, Brook Street, London W1
Dinner for two, including wine and service, £120.
The Reverend Sydney Smith, a great 18th-century wit and raconteur, once described his idea of heaven as 'eating pté de foie gras to the sound of trumpets'. At Gordon Ramsay at Claridge's, the newest restaurant from Britain's most feted chef, I ate foie gras and the trumpets didn't sound. I am not claiming that what I ate was bad. It wasn't. None of it was. But accolades, like the three Michelin stars that Ramsay holds at his flagship restaurant in Chelsea, bring with them gilded expectations and, where ambitious restaurants are concerned, a little expectation can be a terrible thing. From chefs like Ramsay we do not look merely for good or very good. Very good is simply not good enough. We crave memories.
What was a little peculiar about the whole experience was that, in so many ways, Ramsay and his team have got this absolutely right. It was in the central events - the starters and main courses - that the disappointments lay. But let's deal with all the good stuff first, because there's a lot of it. The dining room at Claridge's, upon which he has a 25-year lease, is gorgeous, an Art Deco outrage of caramels and golds. Great, glowing sail-like chandeliers float above the tables, bringing down the high ceiling a good 20ft. The carpet has grand curves of colour that are reflected by the honey shades of the walls. It's all like being inside a very expensive box of toffees.
Even at just half full - as it was when we arrived - the wide room runs the risk of becoming a little sepulchral and hushed, with so many staff standing sentry to so few diners. But that's not likely to be a problem often, with Ramsay's name on the door. Soon, the place filled up, and with a deliciously mixed crowd. There was a fabulous table of glossy European face lifts, each of them with that constant look of amused surprise that the procedure results in. On another table was that bloke who plays Don Beech in The Bill, plus a bunch of people who would happily welcome Hello! into their lovely homes, given half a chance. Lots of good people-watching possibilities, then.
Not that we had much time to do so. The myriad waiters were quickly upon us, offering menus and bottles of water, glasses of champagne and a great basket of perfect breads. Next came the canapés: an egg cup full of a sublime aubergine caviar, another of an almost sweet cream cheese, and an elfin dish of a foie gras pté, beneath a gloss of sweet wine jelly. Once orders had been taken we were each given a little cup of an intense pumpkin soup, rich with slivers of sautéed mushroom and truffle oil. It was stunning - an extraordinary swirl of autumnal flavour. Our expectations were being met; they were, already, delivering us memories.
And so to the disappointments. For her starter, my wife, Pat, had ordered the ravioli of Scottish lobster, poached in a lobster bisque. At his other restaurant in Chelsea, Ramsay serves it on a bed of crushed peas. Here, presumably because he does not want to be accused of just banging out the same dishes, it comes with a fine basil purée flavoured with lemon grass. The ravioli was surprisingly solid and the sweetness of the lobster was lost. The sauces, though rich in flavour, were heavily reduced unto swirls on the plate. There was little liquid to lubricate the whole. It was nice, Pat said, but...
I felt the same way about my slices of oven-roasted foie gras with caramelised endives, Victoria plum compte and a deep Banyuls sauce. It was all good stuff. The gaminess of the liver worked well with the spikiness of the fruit. The sauce was faultless, but it just didn't make me sing. None of those trumpets. Certainly it wasn't the best foie gras dish I have ever eaten, which is, frankly, what I had expected from Ramsay.
The same applied to the main courses. Pat ordered breast of black-leg chicken with baby artichokes and a tagliatelle of chervil and morel. She did so, she said, because chicken can be so bland. She wanted to see what it would be like here. At best, she said, this dish was artfully subtle - but that was only being polite. I had to agree. The texture of the meat was almost smooth; sometimes that kind of perfect technique can produce a dish lacking character and that's what had happened here.
My roasted monkfish tail wrapped in Parma ham was a well cooked piece of fish, but I can't get more excited by it than that. It came with a lovely, light spring onion and broad bean risotto, which I would have preferred to have seen as part of the dish rather than in a separate bowl. 'Really amazing food makes you feel incredibly clever for having chosen to sit in that restaurant,' Pat said. 'And I'm not feeling clever.' Again, I had to agree.
Then things perked up. A stunning inter-course of a coffee cream topped with a coffee granita was followed by two truly great puddings. Pat's lush rum baba came with marinated oranges. I had to order a Bailey's bread and butter pudding with Bailey's ice cream, because it sounded like something you'd get at a Harvester. It was more of a culinary joke, the light tang of the Bailey's only sounding right at the end, as if it to remind you it had been listed on the menu.
To drink, we didn't even bother with the doorstop of a wine list and instead followed the sommelier's recommendations. We had two wines by the glass with the starters - a dust-dry Mersault for Pat with her ravioli, a glass of the Banyul with my foie gras - followed by a half-bottle of a light, red Domaine Arlaud with our main courses.
Service was genuinely charming and professional, although they failed dismally the wine pouring test. Despite saying we would fill our own glasses, no fewer than four waiters tried to have a go. Perhaps they will solve the problem in time; it was, after all, their first night.
All round, then, an uneven experience and a particularly disappointing one, because I have eaten Ramsay's food before and adored it. Saying all this is not made any easier by the fact that I was recognised by one of the waiters from a previous restaurant and, hence, invited back to meet Ramsay in the kitchen, where he was overseeing a brigade of 35. (With the front-of-house team, the staff-diner ratio is one to one, exactly what you need to have any hope of achieving three Michelin stars.) This restaurant, Ramsay said, is not some whim of his but a long-term project. He will be in the kitchen here often.
A mark of that long-term plan is the pricing. The going rate for top-class food in London right now is £50 a head for three courses. At Gordon Ramsay in Chelsea, it is £65. At Gordon Ramsay Claridge's, three courses cost £38. (The shorter lunch menu is a steal at just £21.) I would never claim this was cheap - not least because portions of the readership would lynch me - but it's not stratospheric and it does offer a greater number of people the opportunity to decide for themselves whether the praise for Ramsay is deserved. I think it's an opportunity worth taking because, as sure as main course follows starter, those prices will eventually go up.
Contact Jay Rayner on jay.rayner@observer.co.uk.
