La Tante Claire

At the moment, it is quite fashionable to diss the Michelin guide or, rather, the Michelin 'star' system. Chefs recently went through a phase of taking delight in handing back their stars, much as right-on pop stars handed back their OBEs in the Sixties in protest against the Vietnam War.

On top of this, such oracular sources of wisdom on the gastro-scene as the Zagat guide (little more than a patchwork of opinions from people who fill out questionnaires) say the prevailing mood of eating in London is 'hot, not haute'. To this I say 'cobblers'. I used to be firmly opposed to the sepulchral school of dining, but, ever the contrapuntalist, the more the Michelin-star-rating system takes a hammering, the more I take a liking to it. I collect old Michelin guides and, as far as I am concerned, the only error Michelin has ever made is not to award Riva, in Barnes, a trio of stars.

That aside, you know where you are with Michelin. There will be an abundance of linen; a lot of napkin-folding; amuse-gueules; rinses-bouches; a healthy staff-customer ratio, and knowledgeable wine waiters. Perhaps the anti-Michelin stance is to do with some restaurateurs wanting to cut corners to maximise profits, or maybe that is just the cynic in me.

As part of my rediscovered Michelin enthusiasm, I visited the two-starred La Tante Claire at the Berkeley Hotel. I went once shortly after its relocation from its site in Royal Hospital Road, now occupied by the three-starred Gordon Ramsay, and recall the service as sweet but incompetent, with one member of staff telling me that if I thought it was bad then, I ought to have been there on the first day of business. For a place where you were obliged to spend a minimum of 50 quid a head, I felt this was too much, and did not go back until the other day.

The room has been designed by David Collins as is almost every other smart restaurant in London these days. As usual, he's done a nice job. The look is one of relaxed formality, a sense reinforced by the injunction of the woman who took my booking that I had to wear a jacket. She suggested this cautiously, in the way that one might suggest some vaguely unpleasant initiation ritual, which made me wonder what sort of barbarians attempted to eat in La Tante Claire these days. Neanderthals clad in wolfskins?

As it was, my fellow diners were a disparate lot, united only by their wealth... and the fact that the men wore jackets. They included a plump man in an over-specced bespoke suit (wing lapels, waistcoat, turned-back cuffs), which meant he could only be from the east coast of America, accompanied by a young woman; numerous Hong Kong Chinese businessmen, all elegantly clad; one man on his own, reading The Times, dressed in a sober suit and sporting an expansive, white moustache that marked him out as a captain of industry (circa 1954); and an impeccably groomed woman in a leather coat (my date) who was a leading figure on the Surrey charidee circuit.

The finest table was composed of what appeared to be North Korean millionaires, one of whom had obviously gone into Gucci and asked Tom Ford personally to knock him up a leather suit that would find favour simultaneously with President Kim Il Sung and Elvis Presley in his Vegas years.

Obviously, eccentrically clad North Korean millionaires are more f?ted at La Tante Claire than Surrey charity divas. They got a good table; we got to sit next to the central wine station, where the table was shaded by an exotic floral eruption that drenched the area in the pungent fragrance of lilies. I would have thought that in a serious restaurant where one is supposed to appreciate the subtle flavours of the food and the delicate aromas of the wines, such an overpoweringly aromatic flower might have been kept out of the dining-room. I know it is an absurdly pretentious cavil, but at this level of dining, such things should be considered.

After a slightly disappointing amuse-bouche of mussels in a mousse that I felt had been left lying around for a little longer than was entirely good for it, dinner got off to a cracking start. Tartare of mackerel with oscietre caviar was simple and delicious. My main of turbot with 'un peu de cr?me' and a healthy covering of black truffle was extremely good, the flavour haunting and addictive. There was an old-fashioned attention to detail in preparation at work here, with the 'peu de cr?me' so lightly rendered as to be almost a cappuccino. My friend was less impressed with terrine de turbot et rouget au beurre blanc, but the John Dory, grilled and served with a b?arnaise, was to her taste.

As we debated whether or not to have pudding, the cheese wagon, a vast trolley of the sort on which the NHS allows people to die in hospital corridors, circled our table like a shark waiting to move in for the kill. I'm glad we did choose pudding. My Surrey charity lady informed me that the pistachio souffl? was a work of towering genius. Well, that is what she meant to say. I ordered cr?pes Suzettes, and even though they were not set alight at the table, they were still tasty in a reassuringly old-fashioned way. After this we retired to the drawing-room. I lit a cigar, and we enjoyed tea and petits fours.