China Tang, The Dorchester Hotel, Park Lane, London W1 (020 7629 9988). Meal for two, £140
There may be camper places in London than the Dorchester, but frankly, not bloody many. It's not simply the long, wide lobby with its twinkling fairy lights, and the gilt touches, and the tasselled and over-stuffed cushions, which make it look like the inside of Liberace's coffin; it's also the recently relaunched Grill Room, whose walls now boast 15ft-high murals of muscled men in swishing kilts, and a huge neon sign that reads: 'You don't have to like musicals to work here, but it helps.' OK, I made the last bit up, but you get the idea. By the time I made it to the doors of China Tang, the new Chinese restaurant in the basement of the hotel, I was so giddy with all the delicious flounces and sparkly bits I was surprised to discover that even a vestige of my heterosexuality was still intact.
And then I descended the stairs and, oh my! Everything here has been lacquered and varnished, not least the wealthy clientele who roar about the place, slugging Martinis and smoking cigarettes held very close to their fingertips.
Restaurateur David Tang, who owns outposts in Hong Kong, Beijing and Singapore, is renowned for obsessing over every detail. He commissioned the intricate weave of the carpet, designed the panelling, chose every little shiny objet d'art, and ordered the wind to blow lightly from a westerly direction. Naturally, if you are now wondering whether you can afford to eat at China Tang, you can't. A bowl of fried rice costs £9.
What you get for this violence upon the wallet is a mixed bag. The place does have a pleasing buzz which reminded me of, well, a busy Chinese restaurant, complete with sometimes chaotic and forgetful service. There are also some very fine dishes, among them the Peking duck. It arrives at the table whole and mahogany brown, the long neck and head in place, and tucked away shyly under the breast. Then the waiters perform pure table theatre, slicing it into a plate of breast meat to be rolled in pancakes and another of the most fantastic, crisp skin. The cook Simon Hopkinson has said that the Chinese are the best in the world at roasting ducks, and this one proved it. The flesh was as tender and flavourful as any I've ever eaten.
If only there were more of it. For £42 you allegedly get the whole animal in two courses, but the second - a meagre stir-fry of the remaining meat - left me hoping the kitchen brigade was enjoying the remainder of my duck. If this had been my money, I would have felt severely short-changed. My advice: leave the rest of the bird on the table so you can pick at it yourself.
There were other great things, in particular a clay pot of long, slow-cooked lamb brisket in a ripe, savoury gravy that bellowed umami, some plump salt and pepper prawns, and very good noodles. Dim sum was unremarkable and sweet and sour pork produced a dish with good pork but far more hot, raw red and green pepper than can ever be necessary at any price. From the wine list, we found something crisp and Alsatian for £30. It was one of the very cheapest bottles on a list that appeared to have been designed for the sort of clientele that enjoys a little light money-laundering before dinner.
In short, China Tang is a Chinese restaurant for the other people. The rest of us will go because all experiences are worth trying once, including bankruptcy.
