It was my 34th meal in London since taking on the job of restaurant critic, and it was, by the kind of distance which separates Tiger Woods from the rest of the pack, the best of the lot. What startles me most is that I ate it at the Hyde Park Hotel. Because, in Rayner family folklore, the Hyde Park is The Scene Of The Crime.
About five years ago, curious as to what a restaurant with three Michelin stars would deliver, we went there one wedding anniversary to sample Marco Pierre White's cooking. It cost twice as much as any meal before or since - £267 for two, as you ask - and the food was prissy, tiresome and in places thoroughly bland. Likewise, the service was so dour and pompous that I ended up wanting to punch out the entire floor staff.
Happily, Marco long ago pushed off elsewhere. The Hyde Park has, in turn, handed its flagship restaurant over to chefs David Nicholls and Hywel Jones, who have moved it from the dingy room it used to occupy on the street side to a lighter space overlooking the park at the back. Unfortunately, the hotel has chosen to theme the space after what they could see out the window, and decided to call it Foliage, possibly the silliest name for a restaurant in London. (I have this vision of an interior designer prancing about the pre-fitted space screeching, 'I'm thinking leaves, I'm thinking fronds, I'm thinking tendrils.')
Put all that to one side. The shades of caramel used are calming, the leaf motifs unobtrusive and the view of the park is indeed a pleasing one. In any case, the reason for going is not the leaves but the food, which is both superb and terrific value. There is a three-course menu at dinner priced at £32.50; five years ago, the same style menu in Marco's place was £75. And this is very much better.
We began with a taster of wild salmon sashimi on a purée of smoked aubergine with a sharp tomato vinaigrette. It was, as these sometimes silly overture dishes should be, a declaration of intent: this meal would be about flavours and textures and finding the perfect balance between them. For her starter, Pat chose a millefeuille of artichoke and baby asparagus on a gribiche dressing (chopped capers, cornichon and parsley), with a slice of truffle peeking through a translucent layer of the artichoke. (They like their truffles at Foliage. And their foie gras. And their oysters and lobster.) Granted, this was at heart a salad but, as Pat put it, the word barely does justice to a dish which managed to combine the earthiness of the artichoke and truffle with the freshness of the asparagus.
I chose the ravioli of scallops, roast langoustines, baby leeks and truffle vinaigrette. It was a seriously popular item. Both people on the next table had it, as did half the table of six across the way, and no wonder. It represented all the virtues of the food here: precise cooking and strong presentation, while still being a serious plateful that appealed to the belly on the very basest of levels. A ring of sweetly caramelised scallops and langoustines surrounded a large ravioli, made with the lightest of pasta and an even lighter mousse, the whole on a butter sauce that had been frothed to within an inch of its life. I could eat it again and again.
The main courses kept up the standard. My gamey Bresse pigeon came with braised white cabbage, a nugget of foie gras - to emphasise the meatiness of the dish; you wouldn't, after all, get much mileage out of a pigeon liver - and an intense celeriac bouillon. It tasted as much of the bird and of truffle as it did of the celeriac root. It was then that the incongruity struck me. You expect, on eating ballsy food like this, to look out at a pastoral landscape from which the ingredients came. It felt like country food. Instead, we were looking out over Hyde Park, and I know I would not want to eat one of the pigeons now roosting there.
Pat's saddle of Welsh lamb with a green olive crust pulled off that clever trick of making the meat taste just as good as it smells when roasting. She hummed to herself as she ate. To finish, I had a gloriously light and fragrant apple and Calvados soufflé, and Pat had cheese, which proved to have been perfectly kept.
With a couple of drinks beforehand and a very French bottle of Crozes Hermitage by Alain Graillot with our meal, the bill, including service, came to £126.50. That's not a small amount of money for dinner, and nobody should ever claim otherwise. But if these things matter to you - and if you're reading this column, I suspect they do - then, by god, it's worth it. In a city pockmarked by big ticket launches, sodden with concept and hauteur, the arrival of Foliage, stupid name or no, is a joy. Marco might like to try it.
• Foliage, Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park, 66 Knightsbridge, London SW1 (020 7235 2000). Dinner for two, including wine and service, costs around £120. Contact Jay Rayner at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk.
