Score 7.5/10
Telephone 020-3147 7200
Address Carlos Place, London W1
Open Mon-Fri, lunch noon-2.30pm, dinner 6.30-10.30pm

For what used to be known as The Connaught Grill, I have the softest of spots. It was in this reassuringly sombre, wood-panelled space that my wife announced that she had gone into labour. "Very good, Sir," replied an ancient in tails when I passed on the news, and in a tone of such studied unflappability that one assumed he had assisted at countless unscheduled births since a crown prince of Bohemia was delivered at Table 14 in 1896. "All steps will be taken to ensure Madam's comfort."

It proved a false alarm, the woman mistaking contractions for the predictable results of eating a vast steak and kidney pud too quickly, although in truth there was no alarm at all. Had her waters broken, you knew the front of house would have coped with such Jeevesian elegance that none of the other diners would have rumbled the outsize sugar tongs for forceps.

Much has changed in the intervening years, and at what is now Hélène Darroze At The Connaught there is more chance of finding confit of syphilitic Peruvian mountain llama than a steak and kidney pudding. Yet for all the veneration of Mademoiselle D - a double Michelin star holder in France and one of the planet's top-ranked female chefs - it is still the service rather than the cooking that dominates. In the unlikely event of someone complaining about their rognons, a waiter would in all likelihood wheel out a dialysis machine and invite them to wait while straws were drawn in the kitchen to pick the donor.

All they were wheeling out when I arrived late was a lovely antique machine aboard a trolley. This was for the slicing of the most ethereal ham I or my friend, Marina Hyde, have ever tasted. "It's so delicate that if you so much as look at it, it just vanishes," she said. Then came a miniature brioche, followed by a staggeringly good foie gras crème brûlée with green apple sorbet, and then a cup of white gazpacho, until it was clear that together these amuse-bouches form the culinary world's answer to Ken Dodd. However long it might take, they will not leave the stage until the audience is weak from the hilarity.

Every single item appeared to be served by a different person, each and every one of them friendly and charming, and so ferociously attentive that had either of us sniffed, someone doubtless would have materialised table-side with a hankie to catch any ensuing sneeze. "There must be at least one waiter per person," Marina said, chuffed beyond recognition at having her order praised by one of the host. "They never do that in Nando's. I had no idea how great at it I was."

Then the bread basket arrived, and so unconscionably melty, fluffy and delectable were the tomato and olive rolls that we'd already had 19,000 calories by the time the starters appeared. For all that, Marina emitted a rapturous "oh my God" at her baby squid, sautéed with chorizo and confit tomatoes and served with black ink risotto, from the credit crunch special at £75 for three courses à la carte. "Amazing, fabulous... The first squid I've ever had that tastes of something," she said.

But my gravad lax with leeks and ratte potatoes, from the bargain basement table d'hôte set lunch at £39 the trio, however daintily presented in trellis-work form, was too tart and salty, and more like cured herring than wild salmon.

My main course was much better. "L'Agneau du Kent de Chez Allen's of Mayfair" (Mr Allen being a local butcher) seemed an irritatingly pointless use of provenance - what do people expect when they're charging these prices? Somerfield? - but the lamb was beautifully tender and vibrant, and worked well with a kind of rarefied garam masala flavouring. Marina's medley of pork - roasted confit of breast, belly, lightly smoked shoulder, black pudding and andouillette - came with pineapple, in what probably wasn't an ironic homage to Domino's Hawaiian, and drew an eerily similar response to her starter. "Och, my God," she enthused. "Wonderful."

And so it is, this cooking in which Darroze infuses imagination, flair and absolute mastery of classical French technique with those self-consciously eclectic touches (Sichuan peppercorn icecream, for instance, with a poached apricot pudding) that remain so stubbornly in vogue. And yet, and yet...

The relentlessness of the faux-generous little treats (sumptuous beyond belief as the petits fours were, note the price of the cup of coffee with which they came) combines with the hyper-attentive service to make this a slightly unnerving experience. There's an assonance in the chasm between the elaboration of the food and the clubbiness of the decor, and the decadence feels misplaced in these challenging economic times.

All in all, then, the ideal way to eat here is this: strap a giant hot-water bottle to your tummy, stuff yourself silly with those unspeakably delicious breads and amuse-bouches, deploy the winkling pin the moment someone looks poised to take the order, point embarrassedly to the puddle on the floor, and ask for directions to the nearest maternity hospital. However willing, expert and numerous the staff, I suspect that makeshift midwifery is a skill that belongs to the late, lamented, steak and kidney pud era at the Connaught.

The bill

1 three-course set lunch £39

Le saumon sauvage d'Irelande

L'agneau du Kent

L'abricot

1 à la carte £75

Les chipirons de ligne

Le porc noir Basque de la vallée des Aldudes

Les fruits rouge d'été

Sparkling water £5

3 glasses Bergerac £18

2 coffees £10

Subtotal £147

Service @ 12.5% £18.37

'Grand total' (I'll say) £165.37