Frills without thrills

Gordon Ramsay has just been appointed the official face of Threshers, the booze chain, with the immortal campaign line 'Wines you can swear by'. I hope the copywriter has the grace to hang their head in shame.

At the same time, he's just about to launch his first restaurant in New York (I am so looking forward to hearing what hard-boiled Noo Yorkers make of him. His Big Sweary Shtick they've already bought with Hell's Kitchen USA, but when they're handing over big bucks in a city heaving with high-end restaurants, they might be less benevolent.)

And he's setting up his own chain of gastropubs. Not to mention his just-published autobiography, TV shows, cookbooks, DVDs, endorsements, magazine and newspaper columns, all the while telling us how much he likes leaping on his wife. Jeez, it takes me all day to write a few words and hang out the washing. You can only gape in awe.

Meanwhile, he has totally refurbished his Royal Hospital Road flagship, Restaurant Gordon Ramsay. As it's one of only three eating places in the UK to brandish the full complement of Michelin stars, this is something of a major event. The foodie community has been gagging to find out how he has made over what was a notoriously naff room, a suburban tart's fantasy of bad wallpaper and blown-glass vases. And so have we.

Well, of course, we had to wait weeks for a reservation. And I'll get how much it cost to eat at what was this week confirmed as London's priciest restaurant out of the way early, so you can start gaping, too: £460 for two. For transparency's sake, I'll confess that some drink was taken: two bottles of wine from the shallow end of the baroque wine list (it was a long, looooong meal); a couple of glasses of Niersteiner with foie gras and a brace of stickies with pudding.

And we had the seven-course tasting 'Menu Prestige' at £110 a head, as opposed to the a la carte at £85, with supplement for some truffle risotto. But still. And I haven't got over my irritation at that 'Menu Prestige' titling: what a blatant, cynical piece of upselling, a way of making the punter who doesn't choose it feel like the poor relation. What are they getting? The 'Menu Declasse'?

And the refurb? So utterly bland as to be forgettable. Acres of off-white furnishings, Caramac-coloured leather and cream panelling. Perhaps the blandness is deliberate, a blank canvas for the holy, sainted food.

Ah yes, the food. It's not bad - of course it's not - but I don't think at this level of dining I've eaten a more soulless dinner. Obviously, GR is not in the kitchen, so his myrmidons churn out a succession of dishes like so many automata.

We asked one of our many, many waiters what it was like to work for Gordon. 'Hard,' he said. 'He tells us the smallest details make the biggest difference.' In that case, I feel justified in pointing out that my partridge was overcooked into greyness and came with the kind of garnishes (roasted baby veg, Madeira sauce) you'd get in an upscale gastropub.

My turbot suffered the same fate, resulting in waxy dryness (although its buttery, grapefruity veloute was ravishing). And I don't mind complaining that several dishes brandished identical blobs of celeriac puree, or baby onions, or mimsy cauliflower florets. Dishes are slicked with dated swirls of balsamic reduction. Silky, slippery pork belly (cooked for 40 hours, apparently) came with an apple compote that tasted like jarred baby food.