Flavour of the past

During my recent personal quest to stuff my face with afternoon tea in every grand hotel in London, I headed for the Waldorf. And headed straight back out again.

I'd been greedily anticipating fin de siecle glamour but some clown had rammed the distinguished portals with the kind of self-consciously modern furniture that crawls all over the northern end of Tottenham Court Road.

I suppose it's hard keeping up with the parvenus of the hotel world - the Sandersons, Baglionis or Zetters. Or the perennially cool One Aldwych virtually next door.

And this none-too-subtle attempt has now brought a rash of what the pointy-heads in charge of the Waldorf revamp will no doubt be referring to as 'hospitality solutions'.

There's the Bar - rammed with suits of both sexes the evening we visited; a dimly lit and decorative Patisserie (today's must-have accessory), whose serried ranks of jewel-like cakes just begged for a re-visit; and the Grand Salon, designed to pay homage to the grand cafes that have lit up the likes of Vienna and Venice for centuries. Rather ironic, since the Wolseley got there first. And, as we shall see, rather more successfully.

The entire suite is called Homage, but it's the Grand Salon we're dealing with today. Inspiration comes from restaurant guru Roy Ackerman, the consultant behind the new openings and author of an annual guide to Europe's cafès. So you'd expect him to know his Cafè des Flores from his Caffe Florians.

Previously the Waldorf's Grill Room, it looks imposing: classically proportioned, massively tall, tricked out in striking monochrome; eating there comes with a sense of occasion. It's this dramatic aspect, I think, which loses the cafe plot.

There was a time when - you'll forgive the swank - I used the Wolseley like others use Starbucks, regularly dropping by for a coffee and some Viennoiserie (a whole lot lovelier than the chains, just as democratic and no more expensive). But I can't imagine doing the same here: too formal, too starchy.

Anyway, the food. There's not a frisson of fusion, an eyebrow-raising ingredient, an experimental flourish. Nor reams of choice. This is a menu as short and conservative as Ann Widdecombe.

Now, I don't mind at all so long as it's well executed. And our meal mostly was. 'Homage' fish soup bore the evidence of good stock but was underseasoned and, fishwise, only featured a double-act of clams and mussels. The rouille, rather than arriving separately with croutons and gruyËre, had already been added: a disappointment.