I’m writing this from the west coast of Scotland. It seems slightly heretical to be writing about restaurants from up here. There is a fatwa against menus in these parts. It’s unquestionably the worst country in Europe to eat out in — or the worst country that didn’t once have a communist dictator.

It’s not the jokey things like deep-fried Mars bars, which actually aren’t that bad (though deep-fried Magnums are truly repellent).

It’s the horrible, dingy, dreech litany of lumpy tinned soup in a mug and filled rolls that are like eating Travelodge pillows studded with gravel and stuffed with autopsy slurry. And it’s also the knowledge that this place is hotching with some of the best raw ingredients in the world, yet finding a scallop or a lobster or even a fresh herring on a menu is like trying to go dogging in Riyadh.

En route, I stopped at a Little Chef. Granted, Little Chefs aren’t just Scottish. But it was the sight of Scots couples eating stinky detritus with concentrated gusto, as if just having someone else do the washing-up was worth the outing, that was so depressing. Outside the central belt and half a dozen heritage hotels, food is a sickly disaster for the Scots. They die younger than anyone else, not just because of the cholesterol, but because, in the end, they can’t face another dinner.

But Scottish food can wait. Because, through the miracle of the human brain, which can be in two places at once, I am even now spinning back to Covent Garden and West Street, where, half a dozen doors down from the Ivy, L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon is the most eagerly awaited opening of the year.

Joël Robuchon is a man who has held six Michelin stars simultaneously in a brace of three-star restaurants. He’s probably the most universally respected chef cooking at the moment and, uncharacteristically for a chef, and a Frenchman, he’s famously modest and charming. This is a satellite of the highly successful Paris restaurant that has been a desperately needed plate of good news for the city, which has seen a devastating decline in public eating and culinary confidence. But London isn’t Paris. We don’t lack culinary confidence. There has been a vertiginous ascent in public eating, and Robuchon doesn’t come with the same deific respect. Customers expect different things here.

L’Atelier has a concept, of course. There are two dining rooms: a traditional one upstairs and the studio, which has been such a revelation in Paris, on the ground floor. It serves modern, though classically prepared, food — but in a Japanese manner. Small, beautifully intense dishes.

We took Michael Gambon for lunch on the first day it was open. You can book a table up to 12.30 — after that, it’s first come, first served. You could see this either as egalitarian fairness, compared with the Masonic, cliquish booking policy of most London restaurants, or as an insufferable annoyance. And if you’re French, you can probably see it as both things simultaneously. The room is attractive in that contemporary conservative way that seems to be looking both forward and back, like a cross-eyed designer. It has a long bar and a wall of fleshy plants. There is ergonomically pleasing cutlery and you sit on high stools.

Having a concept means that you have to have a more intimate relationship with your waiter than you might have wished for, but there’s plenty that needs explaining in a Clouseau-ish accent. Essentially, there are two menus, one that serves food and another that serves smaller food, which more or less allows you to eat less of more, except that it means a lot of awkward sharing of tiddly plates and swapping sucked spoons. This might have been my fault for being greedy. The waiter puffed out his cheeks, waggled his head, stared at his book and muttered that anything was possible.

We ordered pretty much everything. The quality and dexterity of the dishes varied quite a lot. The Iberian ham with toasted tomato bread would be perfectly ordinary in a tapas bar, but the fresh mackerel on a thin tart with parmesan shavings and olives was a miraculously beautiful confection of wafer-thin fish pithiviers. It was such a brilliantly executed combination of tastes that it immediately became one of the best dishes in London. As did a pig’s trotter on parmesan toast and a divine mini hamburger made with beef and foie gras.

The burger, though, was indicative of the catering precipice the Atelier balances on. This attempt at oriental delicacy was constantly in danger of becoming a selection of canapés. There was a moment when I felt like the father of the bride, testing the catering for a wedding reception. But then the inventiveness and balanced flavours and textures in something like the sautéed squid with baby artichoke, chorizo and tomato water danced off the plate like a naked choir singing kyries.

Chef Robuchon came over to our table to say bonjour. He brought a translator. “I af non Eengleesh.” And I af non Frog. He pointed at Gambon and said: “I think I recognise you. Perhaps in a cinema?” Michael smiled and said: “Perhaps. I play gangsters. You know — guns, gangsters.” Joel looked blank. The translation came back: “He is a bum bandit.” “Ah,” the maestro smiled in a liberal, inclusive way. “This is England, of course. It’s only to be expected.”

The Blonde ordered a whiting fried in breadcrumbs from the main menu. It had been boned from an incision along the spine, so it was like a demi fillet. Whiting is a wonderfully delicate fish that has to be as fresh as a cornea transplant. This one, simple, with lemon herb butter, immaculately couture-coated in breadcrumbs, was as perfect as a whiting could ever dream of being. It was the apotheosis of this shyly passed-over little fish.

Puddings are not to be skipped; they’re better than you’ll find anywhere else. The bill for four of us, without wine, was more than £200. It’s not cheap. The miniature burger is £15, the calamari £10, the ham £9.

As ever, I asked if the 12.5% service charge was given directly to the staff. It isn’t. It’s used to make up wages. This is so sadly, meanly depressing. In France, the bill includes everything. The staff are properly paid by the management. Here we have a great chef bringing French food to London, but not his fraternal and decent French wages. It’s cheap, and it taints the generosity of the food. But then, it’s also classically French.

So, do go, but don’t pay the service charge. Leave cash instead. I’m knocking off a star for giving me a triste taste in the mouth.

L’ATELIER DE JOEL ROBUCHON

13-15 West Street, WC2; 020 7010 8600
Lunch, Mon-Sun, noon-3pm; dinner, 5.30pm-midnight (Sun 10.30pm)

5 stars La perfection
4 stars Encore!
3 stars Très bien
2 stars Comme ci, comme ça
1 star Non, merci

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