Reaching for the stars

For every jaded London chef who scuttles off to the country and his own converted inntype domain, there's another who can't wait to shake the dust of the provinces off their shoes for the bright lights and the big hitters of the city. Especially if country boy has managed to score a Michelin in the sticks.

I have no idea how the mind of Michelin works; its latest performance in Tokyo seems typically random, awarding stars to what are essentially upmarket franchises (L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon) while overlooking culinary experiences such as the insanely creative Tapas Molecular Bar.

But I have a suspicion that stars are awarded outside London to places that might not get quite the same attention if they were in W1. I like The West House in Biddenden, deepest Kent, but is it really more star-worthy than The Ritz with its ravishing room and revivified menu? And is Hibiscus just as mind-boggling in Mayfair as it was in Shropshire?

Still, I approached Orrery and its new head chef with an open mind. Although his CV boasts stints with Marco Pierre White and The Greenhouse under Paul Merrett, it was at The Hare Restaurant in Berkshire that Tristan Mason's single Michelin star landed. But could he follow in the hefty footsteps of André Garrett (Galvin At Windows) and Chris Galvin (Galvin), the chaps who made this Marylebone stalwart the foodie flagship of what was formerly the Conran empire?

Well, yes and no. I guess you expected that from the stars at the top of the page. Mason has talent but much of what we ate was odd, verging on the misguided - and not in an El Bulli way, more 'épater les bourgeois'.

First, the things we loved. Improbably fat, pink and perky langoustines languishing on top of terrific gnocchi with the subtle nut-vanilla-hay perfume of tonka beans. But an almost black trompette (wild mushroom) purée was too sticky and sludgy and let the side down.

A towering pineapple sorbet was everything it should be: fluffy, cloudlight, bursting with fruit flavour and beautifully partnered by its coconut sorbet. The ultimate pina colada.

But there was quite a lot that fired blanks, such as the saddle of hare, chocolate jelly and pistachio. It's a clever concept - the gaminess of the animal is a classic foil for a tiny touch of bitter chocolate - but not in this incarnation: a wodge of flubbery, opaque blancmangey stuff accompanying meat so rare it seemed almost raw. On the side, little barrels of slow-cooked hare in a carapace of pistachio nuts were mouth-puckeringly dry. It really didn't work.

Nor did the Viennoise crust on top of a splendid piece of roast turbot. A Marco Pierre White favourite, it's supposed to be a deeply savoury herb, breadcrumb and cheese topping. This looked like green underfelt - with a not dissimilar woolly texture - and tasted mostly of salt with the pondy flavour of overprocessed parsley. It totally suffocated the fish. However, an accompanying little faggot of oxtail and some subtle, oystery salsify were both glorious.

The up-and-down continued. Roast poulet de Bresse was confetti-ed with a lavish, luxury load of intense white truffle; such a shame that the chicken lacked juiciness and that its accompanying wild mushroom ravioli had a chalky core of uncooked pasta.