In a muddle over the make-over

This review was published in November 2001.

Half of me considers it one of the greatest crimes against culture of the 21st century and half of me thinks it a startling coup. I really am in two minds about the make-over of Claridge's.

Claridge's was getting a bit past it. I used to describe it as being a bit like Barbara Cartland, but even dedicated fans of the queen of romance would find it hard to describe her as being in tip-top shape these days. First the old Causerie was changed into a chic David Collins-designed cocktail bar that is popular with Dan Macmillan and was recently the venue for a party thrown by Jade Jagger.

Then came the revamping of the lobby, for which American designer Thierry Despont is said to have taken a $1 million fee. It is executed in a style known as 'Despont Deco' and was obviously judged to be such good value for money that Thierry, or Le Tel as he is known, was asked back to give the restaurant a lick of paint.

A figure of £2.2 million is spoken of as the cost of this and although I am glad it was not my money, Despont has been able to carve a workable modern dining room out of the old Claridge's restaurant - a room so sprawling that at times it was like eating in an auditorium.

Out of this, Despont has designed a useful space. By creating various private rooms and a leather-walled cigar bar called the fumoir (fooomwaahh to give it its American pronunciation), the main restaurant occupies a room that now merely has the dimensions of a largeish cinema. Telescopic lampshades do their valiant best to lower the ceiling and create something akin to human proportions. Odd bits of carmine-coloured fluff around the wall lamps pick out the plush plum of the chairs, huge sprays of flowers erupt from niches in the walls. It is a handsome room and a worthy showcase for the food of a man I regard as the most talented French-inspired London superchef of his generation - Gordon Ramsay.

Rather like Celtic and Rangers (Ramsay used to be a footballer), you either tend to be a Marco Pierre White fan or a Ramsay fan - and I am most definitely a Ramsay follower. His breadth of expertise became apparent the moment we sat down and were inundated by plate after plate of canap?s.

These were unordered: a generous interpretation of the amuse gueule mandatory in smart restaurants. From little cubes of pumpkin to small duck spring rolls, they were exquisite and demonstrated a commendably polyglot expertise. Presentation too was flawless, a sliver of truffle - a perfect cross-section - floated in the middle of a small beaker of pumpkin velout?. A sliced terrine of foie gras, with interstices of goose liver, had a delightful marbled, mosaic-like appearance, while the 'salad' of baby spinach leaves and mango did something to rehabilitate this discredited fruit.

Among the starters is a richly flavoured and concentrated Ramsay classic: ravioli of lobster, poached in a lobster bisque with a hint of lemon grass. However, the clear winner in my book was the plate of saut?ed scallops, with a cauliflower pur?e and white raisin vinaigrette. It had a haunting sweetness that I fear could become addictive and it is with such dishes that Ramsay best sets out his stall.

For all its painstaking plating, this is surprisingly hearty food, as was demonstrated by a dish of roasted monkfish tail in slices of Parma ham with saut?ed cuttlefish and a delicious accompanying dish of spring onion and broad-bean risotto. I had been worried about the puddings as I saw one of those rather common-looking confections - balls of ice-cream with fan-like arrangements of crisp wafers of fruit - being delivered to a table of rather dull-looking businessmen; however the Baileys brioche and butter pudding with a side order of Baileys ice-cream helped me overcome my prejudices.

And then, fortifying myself with a cup of mint tea, I went in search of Ramsay in the bowels of Claridge's and found him discussing the relative merits of Astons and Ferraris with Joel Cadbury at the chef's table - a little booth in Ramsay's kitchen where, for a minimum of £100 (dinner in the restaurant starts at £38 for three courses), super-select customers can come and eat.

I settled in. Listening to these rich young men swap stories about their cars, it seemed to me that Ramsay came out the winner, as his Aston Martin was outside, while Cadbury's Ferrari had broken down in Scotland. It also gave me a chance to inspect another pudding, the rather wonderful-looking tarte tatin. And as I turned into Brook Street in the early morning I reflected that Claridge's has certainly changed, not least because the restaurant was full. I am not sure Ms Cartland would like the new Claridge's, but I can see myself becoming quite fond of it. Then again, I do rather miss the old place.