Review of Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester - July 2010

Where: Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester, Mayfair

With whom: The Flying Manc and two others
How much?: DISCLAIMER ***guests of the restaurant, but not for blogging or review purposes, it's one of the perks of my day job*** two courses (no wine) are £55 per head, three for £75. 

There are times when you realise quite how lucky you are. Being able to regularly conduct business over lunch, especially when that lunch happens to be at one of the 140 in the country with a Michelin star, is a good start. When lunch is at the country's newest three starred restaurant, one of only four accorded the highest accolade in the UK, you're on another level entirely. If I had a newspaper backing me, worked for an investment bank or had a trust fund to pay for it, then I'd probably be used to this by now, as it is, I've just got to try very hard not to sound too smug.

Walking into the Dorchester is always walking into a world of craziness... Even on a Wednesday lunchtime, there were paparazzi outside fighting over who got to be closest to the ridiculous and expensive looking cock extension that someone was emerging from. The Grand Dame of London's grand society hotels, it now has the propensity to resemble mutton dressed as lamb, like someone has taken an elderly but refined lady and dressed her as a high end Russian call girl. Anything that doesn't move has been plumped up, gilded or had a mirror attached to it.

There are multiple restaurants throughout the Dorchester, breathily calling their opulence out as you walk down the Promenade in the centre of the hotel. You can also 'enjoy' afternoon tea along this boardwalk though quite why anyone would choose to enjoy afternoon tea along this stretch, somewhere between Brighton Pier and an explosion in Harrods, I do not know. They have awards though (so I've been told) and there's a better chance of seeing who's just climbed out of the shiny mid-life crisis in the front. But there's the rub. The people here aren't having a mid-life crisis, or even spending their children's inheritance. They're here, from around the world, because spending £36 on a cup of tea and some cakes is perfectly normal, and dropping a ton on lunch for one (without wine) just isn't something that you think twice about. It certainly isn't worth some of the prices you'd get charged but the overall experience is perfection - and people will pay for perfection.

After the gold explosion of the lobby, the (relatively) understated calm of Alain Ducasse came as a blessed relief, I felt like my eyes could breath again. Aside from the floor to ceiling crystal shower curtain (a six person V VIP table separated by a crystal sheet and few quid on the bill), the tone is muted light wood and grey anonymous elegant. After the overblown opulence of the adjoining corridor this is definitely in it's favour. 

The parade of inevitable extras started as we sat with herb parcels in filo pastry, in size and texture no different to warm Scampi Fries, deliciously salty and very more-ish though. These arrived along with a selection of perfectly seasoned choux pastry puffs. The black pepper variant was especially successful. An amuse of heirloom tomato mousse was less inspiring though a handy palate cleanser. 

Oddly (and annoyingly had I have been paying) despite the prices, four items on the short menu came with hefty £10 supplements. My Scottish LANGOUSTINE salad with coral jus (their capitalisation, just in case the oligarchs don't get the main ingredients...) was one of these. Assuming a £20/£35 split on that £55 set price for two courses, that supplement brought the salad to a punchy £30. Don't get me wrong, langoustines that do well at school pray to end up on a plate like this. Some of the sweetest shellfish I've ever had, with an earthy jus served over strips of seasonal vegetable. The dish worked. But for £30, I don't know what else it could have offered, short of trained prawns that danced their way out of the pot and onto my plate. Will stop whinging about money now...

I followed this with the roasted rib, saddle and kidney of MILK FED LAMB, served with perfectly cooked, roasted purple artichokes and new potatoes and a scattering of soft garlic croquettes. These were a revelation. The size of jelly gums, they yielded a perfect soft garlic infused paste under their crisp shell. The meat was cooked medium and fell apart. Technically one of the finest takes on this dish I've had, with a wonderful clarity of flavour. 

The Flying Manc had the roasted native LOBSTER, seasonal vegetables and macaroni served as a tiny raft of gratinated tubes. Again, simple perfection in ingredients and preparation. The showmanship ran through to the array of petits fours served with our coffee, macaroons, tiny dark walnut studded chocolate nibs and a variety of chocolates and sweets. One of my hosts ordered a lemon verbena tisane, the leaves cut from the plant in front of us, served with a sense of theatre. 

The service throughout was flawless, in every sense of the word. The staff were attentive, knowledgable (the Pinot Noir selected as an accompaniment to my lamb isn't what I would have picked, but worked a treat) and unobtrusive. There is a discernible, hugely positive difference between here and many of the one star restaurants I've eaten at. Does the restaurant justify a third star? I couldn't say I was competent or experienced enough to judge that, but for all elements it was a meal striking in its perfection throughout, the clientele were certainly happy to pay for this perfection, and I was honoured to eat it (even if I won't necessarily be taking my own wallet back there..) 

The humble fry, an ode to Sergio - Part I

Restaurants run by people who come from, and live in the community that they serve need to cook, prepare and serve consistently good quality, affordable food. They're not in it to make big money, but to financially survive along with their neighbours. At the opposite end of the scale, you have the Renaissance artists of the food world and their patrons. Those who pay to see, rate and be seen, rating. Ticking the names off their culinary big game list. 

At least both ends are fully involved in the journey from ingredients to plate. In the middle, you're well and truly shafted. Removed from the means of production by microwave, fryer, centralised menus, ordering and preprogrammed tills, the poor sods charged with bringing this from freezer to table are as involved with the culinary world as this blog is with the literary.

I was reminded of this at 9:57 a.m. on a Sunday morning, attempting to have breakfast at a Premier Inn in the middle of Leicestershire. Harried staff on a turnaround for lunch - "you know what happens if the juices are still out when Sheila gets in" - had to rush our order through to get it in before the axe swung at 10. Cooked to order, a anomaly in places like this managed by the big Pub Co's, it was hot and freshly cooked, but bland and forgettable. The ingredients were obviously selected by a corporate chefcountant for optimum price vs lifespan vs storage ratio and cooked to the tune of a laminated card above the fryer. 
I came over slightly communist at this point, ranting at the Vole about the invidiousness of said corporations. I was sure that the guy in the kitchen didn't want to be cooking this crap, as much as I didn't want to be eating it. Would the bacon sandwich that he cooked for his mates the morning after a big night out not have been preferable? Not fitting a corporate template, but prepared with pride.


This experience was especially sad coming as it did the day after I'd found out that Sergios of Eagle Place was no more. That pissy alley between Picadilly and Jermyn Street held a tiny tobacconist, a fruity tailor of the Grace Brothers era and a formica table topped, mirrored wall, Sun reading, stuttering coffee machined workaday glorious cafe. 
I'd pop in before a regular morning meeting that way. Always for a bacon on fresh white bloomer treat. It came soft and yielding with a lightly chewy crust and a slight crisp on the salty pig fat, garnished with red sauce, served with a steaming tea, bag firmly still in. Banter existed. The owner (possibly the Sergio of the title) knew his regulars and teas, coffees and 'works' were dispensed to a steady, mixed stream of brickies, cabbies and well preserved gentlemen in their Jermyn suits. 


So here's to Sergio. And to other ones like him. Keep the good ones alive, we'll miss them when they're gone, and replaced by faceless Pain Quotien or Eat or worse. Shout cheers to the guy behind the counter as you leave, and don't dump your teabag on the table.