A disappointing end to a disappointing summer

Certain dates imprint themselves indelibly on the public psyche. Rotting bins and rationed power made 1979 the Winter of Discontent, while 1997 will forever be The Year Diana Died. 2007, I suspect, is another destined never to be forgotten, but not because of events that have changed our life or our way of looking at it. Unfortunately it has come to symbolise six months that will occupy a grey and rain-lashed space in our collective memory: we shall call it the Summer of Disappointment.

Where do I begin? The floods. Foot and mouth disease. Rising interest rates. Chaos at airports and violence on the streets. Memorial events for Diana that simply have not captured the nation's heart or imagination. A lacklustre political opposition that hasn't even scratched the bouncing Brown.

Disappointment is a dispiriting emotion that gnaws away at the soul like a mouse chewing on a piece of rope. And so, in an effort to cheer myself up, I toddled off to Theo Randall for lunch.

Life has certain givens. If you wear white linen, it will rain. And if you eat food that has been prepared by an ex-River Café chef, you'll be guaranteed an ambrosial meal.

River Café is the Fulham restaurant whose name has become synonymous with excellent food and success. It spawned Jamie Oliver, sells cookbooks by the thousand, and its former head chef (of 15 years) is Theo Randall, who has just opened his own eatery deep in the bowels of the InterContinental Hotel in Park Lane. As you can imagine, when I arrived at the hotel my expectations were higher than Victoria Beckham's hemline.

The building is (of course) disappointing, its breeze-block exterior redeemed by waterfall chandeliers and stained glass within. I always feel like a foreigner when I visit a hotel in London. You know you'll never stay there, so you can view it dispassionately. There's the hustle-bustle of reception, a sense of movement and impermanence, and potentially nefarious goings-on among the guests. Not that there seemed to be anything nefarious going on when I walked into the InterContinental. Men in trainers and women carrying bags of shopping made me think I was at a railway station.

The restaurant itself felt almost subterranean, mainly due to the lack of natural light. A friend's daughter holidaying recently in Cancun was advised that the safest place to shelter from the approaching hurricane was in a windowless bathroom. Diners at Theo Randall would be similarly secure - a small crumb of comfort to take from a place devoid of atmosphere. The tables are too big and the few customers almost outnumbered by the sweet but over-efficient staff.

Never mind, I had taken a political researcher and an artist and we were all cheered by the prospect of a good lunch at a reasonable price. The delicious bruschetta brought with our menus didn't disappoint, but I wish I could say the same for the rest of the meal. It was the culinary equivalent of watching open-air theatre in the pouring rain: at times there were glimpses of magic, but in the main it was a washout.

Green figs with mozzarella were good, but simple pasta in tomato sauce (surely the acid test for any Italian restaurant) tasted as if it had come from the chilled section of a supermarket. The yellow fin tuna tasted tired and the artist's turbot (from the main menu) should have been brushed with rather than doused in so much oil that she left most of it. The puddings were best, although the pastry in a chocolate tart was so stale we wondered how long it had been languishing there.

I realise that restaurants in hotels have a different flavour and to some extent a different function from their stand-alone siblings. With a constant flow of hungry guests arriving, they don't have to rely on 'passing trade' to fill their seats. The danger here is complacency - and, of course, the reputation - not just of the hotel, but of its famous chef.