Bright and wrong

Ever wondered what happened to that Spacehopper you happily bounced around on as a child? Turns out it was melted down to make the floor of Beauberry House. On entering the restaurant, with its fuzzy, felt orange chairs and spindly fibre-optic chandelier that could have been made from a child's construction toy, I felt as if I'd stumbled into some sort of kinky adult playground.

All of which is at odds with the building's grand Georgian exterior and idyllic Belair Park setting. An infestation of flying ants drove us off the sun-drenched terrace and into the bar, where Sky Sports was being projected on to a cinema-sized screen at a deafening volume.

A report on Zinedine Zidane's head-butting technique was so fascinating that even a member of staff sat down to watch it.

The reception desk was as empty when we arrived as it was when we were ready to be seated. The football-loving waiter eventually appeared (presumably during an ad break) and showed us through to the empty dining room. Although five well-heeled, thirtysomething couples braved the insect attack to dine alfresco, the restaurant remained otherwise deserted. As the food began to arrive, it became apparent why.

Executive chef Jerome Tauvron's impressive CV includes time spent in the kitchens of modern culinary legends Alain Ducasse, Pierre Gagnaire and Marco Pierre White. A shame, then, that you'll find none of their panache on the menu at Beauberry House. Instead, the rather lame schtick here is 'modern French and Japanese'.

Salt-and-pepper crispy squid with chilli and coriander was more party snack than starter. A pile of the crisply battered rings came in an edible yet completely tasteless pastry cup. A heap of chewy green seaweed added little to the dish and remained untouched. The gloopy chilli dipping sauce also made an unwelcome guest appearance with a duck foie gras terrine with beetroot juice - a dish that proves that sometimes East really shouldn't meet West.

A fine bottle of Josmeyer Gewurztraminer from Alsace survived a clattering toss into the wine cooler by a rather too laid-back waiter and did its aromatic, oily best to cope with the spices in the food.

It wasn't helped by starting off warm and only reaching its optimum temperature by the last glass.

Smoked lobster was off (perhaps it had come to its senses and given up the filthy habit) and instead came tempura-style. The batter was not the see-through, paper-thin sheath it should have been and masked the delicate, sweet flavour of the meat. For £26, it was not much of a dish, especially as the accompanying veg, including enoki mushrooms and green beans, were clad in the same thick armour. A veal chop came in pink and juicy slices but was let down by a dry and very ordinary gratin dauphinois and a mushroom sauce that wouldn't look out of place in a Beefeater.

Desserts brought new meaning to the word misguided. I love the pungent earthiness of fresh black truffles - just not with a pot of rich chocolate mousse. Unripe, tasteless slices of dragon fruit and nectarines did nothing for a decent nougat glace - a sort of posh block of ice cream.

As we sipped tepid, underpowered espresso, it was difficult not to see the flowers, which were busy dying in thin-stemmed vases on tables all over the dining room, as some sort of clumsy metaphor for the defeated air that clings to Beauberry House. It has only just had a refurb but on this showing, it might not be too long before they're melting down the floor once again.