Don't forget your bucket

I remember Beach Blanket Babylon from when I first came to London. With its Gaudé-esque decor, jewel colours and cool Notting Hill clientele, I thought it was just the most louche, glamorous place I'd ever seen.

Several years later, the installation of chef Jean-Luc Desormiëre, ex-The Savoy via a couple of Michelin-starred Parisian gaffs, prompted a revisit. Would it live up to its memory? No, it bloody would not.

It still looks pretty good, but it has a jaded air, as do its customers, none of whom is as groovy or young as they think. And, as far as the new menu is concerned, I can only hope we visited on Jean-Luc's night off because we endured the worst meal I've had since the beachfront cafè on the Isle of Bute.

Wild mushroom and vanilla seed risotto: I still shudder at its recollection. Aclump of rice, the consistency of leftover school dinner sago, bore three slices of leathery smoked duck breast; the seeds gave it the whiff of old man's pipe tobacco. It was inexplicably doused in oily pesto. I left all of it.

My date's mushroom soup tasted of swamp. A main course of fillet steak - a piece of meat that managed to deliver no flavour other than char-grill - lolled on top of two boulder-hard potatoes; a solitary roast garlic clove and smear of indifferent stilton did little to help matters. I left this, too.

At no point did the staff query our lack of interest. A fish dish has thankfully managed to slip from my memory, leaving little other than an impression of damp flannel. La recherche du temps perdu? Forget it.