Alain Ducasse at The Dorchester: Your table is an island, staff sail like ships, and the magic lasts till morning

For the latest in our Famous London Restaurants series we visit Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester, still a giant of London restaurants after 10 years on the scene.

The backstory: Alain Ducasse has more three Michelin starred restaurants than London does. He has three, we have two. And, er, one of those, this one, is his. He’s got us beat, in other words. There’s a decent case that Mr Ducasse (really, really not an ‘Al’) is the most successful and decorated chef in the world, and expectations were heavenly when he opened up here – literally, with one writer declaring his arrival ‘God coming to town’ – but reviews were middling, not exceptional, the fanfare there, but muted. Now the restaurant has reached double figures, 10 this year, the kinks have long been ironed out. It picked up a trio of stars, after all. The friendly but quietly intimidating Jean-Philippe Blondet – Ducasse’s kind of man, if I had to guess – is now executive chef.

What’s on the menu? Veal with wild chicory and black truffle so good I’ve memorised it in case I end up on death row in need of a last meal. Fortifying, rich, a little gooey and with a great big bark of flavour: all earth and meat. A touch formulaic? Who cares when it tastes like this?

I’ve got ahead of myself, though. The veal is a main. To start, try the dorset crab with celeriac and caviar: granted, a list of ingredients that sound like a parody of fine dining, but tart and bright and popping with the touch of slightly sweet, slightly salty caviar. On another plate, bold-flavoured Scottish langoustine held up well to the unsurprisingly bracing confit lemon.

Venison rib and saddle came covered in peanut, served with parsnip – nicely odd set of flavours made it a curiosity but this one dented the air of perfection: the venison didn’t wow, a touch overdone. Still, the cheese board is a thing of wonder, the Colston Bassett Stilton a blinder: pure blue cheese bliss. Be wise and temper it with a glass of Madeira.

Of which, there's much to enjoy on the wine list, if you don't swallow your tongue gasping at the prices. Is there a correlation between the rich buying from these sorts of lists and rising London rents?

There are some bottles of beauty here, though interestingly, much of what was enjoyed most was on the cheaper end of the list. Our table was a choir of wine glasses: the house champagne is jolly decent, a 1998 Rioja from Luis Marín Diez capably managed both the peanut and parsnip and the venison, though it nothing on the straightforward pleasure of the Domaine Denis Mortet’s 2013 ‘Mes Cinq Terroirs’. Shiveringly good.

A final note on the food: on leaving, staff offer a last little bag of goodies. I took a fearful look at the thing, worried for my stomach lining, already so stretched I might have doubled as a timpani drum. The hands went up in protest: I couldn’t possibly, I don’t want to die in the back of an Uber, etc etc. ‘No no, sir,’ they assured me, ‘This is for breakfast, with coffee’.

I relented, and the next morning, espresso dribbling from the machine, I spotted them on the counter. I am grey coloured and grey feeling most days around seven. But just then, a little of the restaurant made it into my flat and a little of me went back. What a lift, what a joy ...And the third star suddenly made sense.

Atmosphere: I didn’t realise the illusion this place pulled off till we were out in the Mayfair rain. The dining room doesn’t stun. The Ritz has a far grander sense of occasion, SexyFish is more glitzy – you know there are Hirst’s galore, even if it is too dark to see them – and it doesn’t hum like the Wolseley. Walking through the door and expectations take a hit. It’s not that the room is ugly – it isn’t – it’s just that it’s got the same beiges, coffees and wood panelling of a waiting room at a very pricey private hospital.

There's a magic trick, though, and it's this: the nondescript interior is misdirection. With no temptation to look around, attention stays on the table. It becomes an island, where synchronised staff arrive like ships. The feeling is glorious: rarely does a restaurant feel so comfortable, and yet so utterly sumptuous and luxurious: the waiters came and went as though they’d wire-tapped our brainwaves, somehow appearing just when needed and floating away the same way. The service can't be questioned: we were thoroughly spoiled. Everyone was.

Who goes? The wealthy. To be blunt about it. It’s more for the successful than the famous. We spotted everyone from couples on a date to a father and son catching up. Surprisingly young crowd, too: monied, this spot, but not God’s waiting room, despite the looks.

Cheque out: À la carte: three courses – £100, four courses – £120. Seven course tasting menu – £140 (£115 for vegetarian ‘Jardin’ menu), Seven course seasonal Black Truffle menu – £260. Wines can be paired to the tasting menus for an additional £95 – £195, depending on choice. Lunch at £65 including two glasses of wine is a bargain. The rest, obviously, is not: the main criticism of this restaurant has always been the price.

Wines go from £10 – £60 per glass, from £65 – £220 per carafe, from £45 per bottle, well into the thousands, plenty around the £70 – £110 mark. The wine list is extensive and the mark-up varies unevenly across the list but largely can be a little stiff. It’s no worse than any other high-end, Mayfair London restaurant.

Find it: Inside the Dorchester, 53 Park Lane, Mayfair, W1K 1QA, alainducasse-dorchester.com

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