Juan's review of L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon

January 25th, 2009

Just back from Brazil, having spent my birthday trudging around various sugar plantations and mills in Ribeirao Preto, 200 miles west of Sao Paolo. Warm Brazilian-style hospitality and phenomenal, basic, home-made Italian food at the home of the 7th generation Italian ‘lords’ of the region – The raviolis they managed to produce! Wow!

Back in London but keen to take out my babe and my cousin and his wife for a high-quality, innovative and fun belated birthday dinner at 'L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon'. The girls are young and love to party and Al and I have our standards. This would certainly make for a week marked by a variety of style and I have never failed to be impressed by the quality and style of the food at the great chef's ‘pret-a-porter’ outlet in London.

The decor had always been fun, the staff young and fairly eager to please and the food well executed and highly original. There are two styles of atmosphere and fare for one to choose between, the upstairs being referred to as ‘La Cuisine’ and the downstairs being somewhat younger and more ecclectic in style. I was well inspired to indulge on my 41st and, being well familiar with both sections of the restaurant, I went for the upstairs.

It was fairly evident from the moment I arrived with Vera that Joel Robuchon had not visited his London restaurant in a while; either that or his corporate management skills are nothing to compare to his world-celebrated culinary mastery. Two female receptionists were available to receive us and take our overcoats but both were busy flirting with four slovenly, untucked-shirt male guests who apparently required the attention of both receptionists. It further transpired, when our arrival was finally acknowledged, that my cousin and his wife had been installed at another table downstairs – quite contrary to our reservation at upstairs ‘La Cuisine’.

So far so bad but worse was yet to come when we had all finally been seated upstairs. Our girls were chirpy and happy as ever and they valiantly shrugged off the immediately apparent blase and downright snotty reception which was extended to us by the maitre d'. The latter flashed an extraordinarily insincere smile to his first guests of the evening and very soon demanded an order; when I kindly requested a few more minutes before deciding, he spun around on his heal and pranced over to the wall from where he eyed us in his by now markedly unfriendly and utterly snotty manner – "What do these local Londoners whom I have received so often before think this is? Are they not aware that this is no longer an overpaid banker's theme-park but a tourist attraction for Euro-packed foreign weekend shoppers?” I bit the bullet, perused the menu for another two minutes and ordered the £145 per person tasting menu for our table.

The food was beautiful as usual: fabulous sea-urchin concoctions and foie-gras accompanied by wines which were enthusiastically presented and served by an adequately knowledgeable and well-meaning Bulgar sommelier. His efforts were unfortunately overshadowed by our maitre d' who presented the courses with his finger almost in physical contact with the food and his enunciating speech organ leaned right over on top of the otherwise beautifully presented dishes. He was backed up by a waiter whose loud heal-clatter announced his every appearance at our table and I decided to call an end to the evening when this very Jerry Lewis chose to engage in inappropriate conversation with my fiancee while he leaned against the wall.

My abrupt demand for the bill after only our second course was perhaps too much too soon but it certainly woke up the maitre d’ who was by now visibly taken aback and ashamed but nonetheless unapologetic. Vera was in tears at my outrage and subsequent reaction and I chose to settle the bill as she and Yasmin whisked off to the washrooms to wipe away her tears. The maitre d’ stupidly asked if there was a problem with the food and if he could “do something about the bill”. I was, as you might imagine, very tempted to suggest exactly what he might do with the bill but restrained myself and answered that “no, the food was more than satisfactory”. The maitre d’ then enquired if perhaps there was “a problem with the restaurant?” to which I replied “yes, there certainly is a problem with the restaurant” upon which I settled the shameless £800 bill and vacated the premises.