OK we have all been there. Anyone who has sampled so-called fine dining in one of London’s top Mayfair establishments has seen it all before: the recognisable celebrity who receives star treatment; the lesser-known but clearly wealthy patron who can evoke sickening sycophancy from their favourite waiter with a knowing nod in return for a healthy and regenerative tip. But what I cannot accept is the service I received at Koffman’s last night.
Firstly, let me set the scene. I have not visited this establishment since it arose from the Boxwood Café ashes under the auspices of Pierre Koffman, and I perhaps wrongly assumed that it may be in the process of building a new loyal client base. On arrival my dining partner and I were greeted by a rather surly front of house female who informed us that although there was no booking in our name, she would gladly accommodate us. (I shall gloss over her rather sheepish response to being shown the email confirmation on my BlackBerry sent two days earlier.)
And so, to table. The welcome was convivial enough; one Hendrick’s and tonic and one Pousse Rapier delivered without unnecessary aplomb. My partner was in four minds about her choice of main, but our waiter duly quashed her quandary with the suggestion of a ribeye steak – not because it balanced well with her choice of starter, but simply because apparently he preferred steak.
Starters were served: my black pudding with apple was acceptable if a little under-seasoned; my guest’s snails with mushroom and mashed potato proved in hindsight to be the highlight of the meal. Upon the delayed clearance of our plates I pointed out that I had still not been offered a wine list. Eventually the wine I selected was brought to table – oddly by the previously-inconspicuous sommelier who showed neither appreciation nor disdain for an Alzipratu Rose I had chosen in lieu of the cognoscenti to span the gap between the Dover Sole and Calf’s Liver we had chosen for main courses .
But the real crux is this… More