The Delaunay

Dining at The Delaunay is a bit like going to the theatre. It is something of an event. The ambience and decor is reminiscent of a rather grand Parisian brasserie, with the menu following a similar route, albeit with a marked Germanic twist. My steak tartar starter was good, but not a patch on Galvin's, and while my choucroute main course (something of a brasserie benchmark, I feel) was certainly acceptable, it was neither as interesting or as well executed as it would be in Flo or Bofinger. On the other hand, the wine list was rather better and more broad-minded than you might find in either eaterie and the reasonably-priced Heinrich Blaufranckische we chose was ample proof that Austrian red wine can be exciting, different, refined and a long, long way from the alcoholic jam of much of the New World. The service was exemplary: the winning combination of efficiency and friendliness that the same proprietors achieve in The Wolseley, another large and glamourous space which others have already compared to The Delaunay, correctly in my view.

If the brasserie style food is better at Galvins and Racine, both establishments are inevitably more intimate and certainly less glamorous. At The Delaunay, the restaurant – rather than the kitchen – is the star performer. On the evening of our visit, the increasingly venerable Tom Jones swept in. Our Tom seemed happy and content,. And as I glanced around the large room, the same could be said for everyone dining at The Delaunay. We were all having a great night out. There's something to be said for that.

After the failure of St Alban, where they tried to change the formula, the owners have adhered closely to The Wolseley model. So, if you don't like the Wolseley stay away but, if like me you enjoy The Wolseley you'll love Delaunay. The designer has done a fantastic job reconfiguring the space previously occupied by Bank and has created a very impressive, if slightly serious environment. Service is excellent and even on a Saturday evening the owner was patrolling the floor to ensure the restaurant ran smoothly. The food was good rather than exceptional but the menu contains a few unusual items such as Frankfurters and salt beef sandwiches.

On my second visit the atmosphere was better as it was full and buzzy, much like the Wolseley. The food was also better. My choices of 70's classics; Prawn cocktail and Chicken Kiev were both excellent, certainly better than they ever tasted back in the day! This visit confirmed my initial believe that this is a restaurant of substance as well as style that will become a London institution.

No need for long drawn out reviews. The delaunay is comfortable in all areas, ideal for theatre land, whether for brunch to catch a matinee, or evening for greater things. In our case it was to be with grand child in tow and then on to Shreck the Musical. The service is good even when said grand child spilt his orange juice we were made to feel comfortable and welcome. well done to those who care about the Client

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; this is a tale of two meals. The Delaunay announces itself as an all day dining place, so in the interests of fairness, I visited it at lunchtime and then for a late, post-theatre supper (for it would be far too gauche to call what one has here dinner). The experiences were markedly different.

This place smells new – that leather smell that you get from a new Roller amplified but what must have been the remains of most of the extras on Rawhide, overpowering as you first walk in. This will go over time, but what will not is the imposing nature of the room.

Much like their other joint, the Wolsely, Delaunay is grand, on the scale of a Lyonnais brasserie (or at least a New York imitation of one) or, given the pile of cakes, a Viennese grand cafe. Dark panelled wood lines the walls; that fresh, green leather in the banquettes and booths. The ceiling is high and floor polished marble. It reeks as much of money as it does of leather, although the patina of age will fade the leather, it will only enhance the smell of money.

Oddly, however, the clientele doesn’t seem so monied. It may be close to the Courts of Justice, but it is equally close to Drury Lane, so there was an odd mixture about the crowd. What is noticeable is that at lunchtime the old grandees of the City seem to be more prominent, wining out over the tourists wandering up Drury Lane, whilst in the evening, it is a different story; a younger, more lively crowd.

The first time I was in, Messrs King and Corbin were in, glad-handing the great and the good (I didn’t recognise any of them, but I am sure that there were those who were both). I was studiously ignored, but at least wasn’t sent to the Siberian wastelands of The Table By The Loo. The evening trip was a different story: we were fortunately not sat behind the glass, screened off area (which I first took for a private room, but turns out to be the restaurant equivalent of the naughty step), but instead had the dreaded Table By The Serving Station, with the person on the outside (me) getting a great view of the till and the dumb waiters.

This isn’t an insult: the kitchen, unlike so many places in town, is not open to view, but is on another floor, the food coming to the counter via a vast array of lifts. I recently came across a site on the Interweb called Table Guru that rates how hot which tables at a restaurant are, telling you if you are in the seated equivalent of Boujis or Club 26. I am not sure if this is so that you can feel hard done by when you get there and find that you are at TTBTL, as if you couldn’t already spot it, or whether it is so that you can request your specific seat when you book. Although as most bookings are done online these days, I really can’t quite see the point. Bit like most of the Interweb in fact.

To be fair, the tables are a generous size, and well spread out, resisting the temptation to cram five tables into a single banquette (a la Bar Boulad), settling for a far roomier three, meaning that, as the people at the table next to us and we did at the end of the meal, it was easy for both dinners to sit one side, looking out over the gathered masses. That there is good space between the tables, however, in no way excuses the waiter from leaning between them to get the credit card machine by the till. No. Go round. Just because you've stuck us in shit table, don't rub it in. In fact, the waiting staff do need a bit more training, which is an odd thought for a restaurant run by the highly polished King Corbin; they seemed nervous, always circling, always wanting to do something, ending up with them whipping my wine glass away, when the last smidge of wine was still staining the glass. That is not good.

Where to start on the food? How about the menu? Big. Encompassing all day eating, but why entrees? And french fries? Surely these are mains and chips? We’re not actually in America, although the menu is clearly intended to allow any stray septics that come in off the street to feel at home. Poor dears.

The food is perfectly adequate comfort fare, but I am fed up with adequate: there was way too much vinaigrette in the avocado and radish salad, coupled with way too little avocado, the dish being dominated by the lettuce that takes third billing on the menu. The tarte flambé was a lovely, thin crust pizza with smoked bacon and shallots, but as a starter could easily have done me for a main. Moule frites was a fair example, but no better than Belgo, and you’re not even told whether it is marinières or creamy (it is creamy, in case you wish to try it). Top marks to the veal escalope though: beautifully cooked, just the right golden stage outside, yet perfectly cooked interior.

But the thing that REALLY gets my goat here is the damn cover charge: £2 a head? Why? To cover for the tap water (which was very helpfully offered rather than the more usual inquisition as to whether sir would prefer still or sparkling) and the bread? For dinner, this amounts to a small fraction of the overall cost, but at lunch, with just one course, when you add in the 12.5% “suggested” gratuity, you are getting to 20%. This is US level. Maybe this too is done to make the septics feel at home.

It is the sort of place I might come back to with certain clients for lunch. For dinner? Well maybe, but there are other places I'd try first. Lots of other places.

This has to be one of the loveliest looking restaurants in town, it really is a treat just walking in to, and I suggest that's all you do. Because once you eat here it's a massive disappointment. The ingredients are poor quality, the cooking sloppy and at these prices that's unforgivable.

Mr C and Mr K were some of the most polished restauranteurs in town, but – and despite what their professional critic mates will say – they have been on a decline when it when it comes to the single most important element of a restaurant – the food.

The Wolseley, when it opened has great ( I still fondly remember the great rosti they used to server – not he flabby, greasy one they offer now) but over the years a tiredness has crept in and the place is average. Well, the Delauncy starts below even that standard. I hope I'm wrong, but I fear this is going to be theatre land trap for the bridge and tunnel mob, who no doubt will not care