Helene Darroze at The Connaught

Sunday, August 03, 2008 - So, what's a restaurant like this for? I couldn't say. I don't know anyone who wants to eat like this, who would put up with the stress and the interruptions and the business and the fawning and the constant attention; the information, the formality and the rictus politeness. This was a 50-thank-yous dinner. It's grand, nostalgic, arrogant, laughable, laudable and impossibly awkward. Dinner that has lost its way. Grand hotels are the refugee camps for French haute cuisine. If you were thinking of giving to Oxfam, perhaps you might consider eating at the Connaught instead.

Saturday, August 02, 2008 - Of course this is a special-occasion kind of place – I can't imagine business diners tolerating this level of interference – but we left feeling that the food, although good, doesn't quite live up to all the worshipful rigmarole that surrounds it. Over-seasoned, over-attentive and over here, was my facile summary. Karen's was more tactful: "It was lovely, but I don't think we'll be coming back soon."

Thursday, July 31, 2008 - Recession my arse, I thought, gazing around the dining room. Large, important-looking men in dark suits seemed as comfortable as if they were in their own living rooms, the sort who clearly think nothing of spending three figures on dinner. Each. For this is The Connaught hotel (est 1897) – still the grande dame of London hotels, one of the last bastions of the bourgeoisie and still a place where they like things done properly and hang the cost.