13-15 West Street, London WC2 (020 7010 8600)
Meal for two, including wine and service £90-£150
The night I went to L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon, the new London outpost of the great French chef's global empire, I was in a state of high anxiety. I was anxious because I did not know whether I would get fed. I was anxious about being hungry. That is never a good start.
An explanation: until 1996, when he retired, Joel Robuchon held three Michelin stars in Paris. In 2003, he announced his next project would be something informal. Punters would sit at a bar round an open kitchen. Dishes would be passed across. They could have a single plate or a whole meal. And because it was informal, there would be no booking; it would be on a first-come, first-served basis. Most of that idea I like very much. I appreciate informality. There is one problem: dinner at L'Atelier can easily cost £150 for two. If I'm in the mood to spend that sort of cash I want to know I'm going to get to eat. I know very few people who can afford to drop that sort of cash on a whim - or, at least, very few I like.
The new establishment in London, a few doors down from the Ivy - there are others in Paris, New York and Las Vegas - has played with the concept. Upstairs is a bookable, sit-down restaurant called La Cuisine, complete with wood-fired oven. On the ground floor is L'Atelier and yes, you can book, but only between 5pm and 7pm (or so they claim; we'll come back to that). After that, you have to put your name down and hope. So we rolled up at 6.30pm, and did as we were told.
L'Atelier is black, very black. With bits of red. The front-of-house staff wear black with bits of red, and stand behind shiny black counters, the whites of their eyes shining through the gloom. We peered into the darkness. The seats around the bar were empty. Still, the receptionist sucked her teeth, ran her pen down an empty reservations book and said we would have to wait 30 minutes. So we went to the bar, which was black. There are thick red velvet curtains and shiny black sofas and no daylight. It's like being locked in a PVC fetishist's knicker drawer. We opened the drinks list and blinked at the prices: £13 for a martini. Could they be sending us up here, despite the empty seats, to make sure we spent serious wedge on curious drinks? Think pomegranate martini with champagne granita. (No nibbles. At these prices there should be nibbles.)
Eventually, after 40 minutes, we were shown down to L'Atelier where ... most of the seats were empty. What is this about? I have no idea. Except that, later, three chefs on a night off sat down next to us and said they had been allowed to book for 8pm because friends worked at the restaurant. In other words, it's a no-booking policy unless they know you, which is - and I've thought hard about this - completely crap.
And deeply distracting. Look at this review: nearly 600 words in and I haven't mentioned the food because I'm so irritated by the no-booking policy. It's a pity because, if you love food, and watching the theatre of the kitchen, once you sit down it's a joyous experience: great food without the po-faced flummery. Expensive yes - tapas-sized portions at around a tenner, main courses at £15 - but worth it, I think. We ate slices of the freshest raw tuna marinated in the fruitiest of olive oils, with the crunch of sea salt. We had a mackerel tart with a crisp base and an acutely judged mix of Provencal flavours beneath the fish. There were greaseless beignets of frogs' legs with a sea-green smear of parsley and garlic sauce, and a big scallop roasted on the shell in seaweed butter with the bracing lift of chilli heat. We had exemplary sweetbreads, which were creamy inside and crisp outside, and a steak tartar with their own crinkle-cut chips.
There were disappointments. Robuchon says his inspiration for L'Atelier comes from the tapas bars of Spain, where he has a house. Thus, hand-sliced Iberico ham is always on the menu. Except it wasn't. They'd run out. There's no excuse for that. They did have Robuchon's take on spaghetti bolognese which, at £11, was unforgivably poor. Sun-dried tomatoes and olives in a bolognese? Oi! Robuchon! NO! And his imagination apparently fails when he gets to pudding, extending no further than that Good Housekeeping standby: chocolate mousse in a teacup. No matter. The rest of the food more than makes up for it. Unlike the no-booking policy. Intriguingly, the day after I visited, the management announced they were dropping the no-booking policy at lunchtime. Let's hope they see sense and do the same in the evening, because it is - and I think you've got the message by now - a total pain in the arse.
