So what can French critics and others expect once they make the pilgrimage to Versailles? Gordon Ramsay was badly wounded by accusations of blandness and a lack of excitement when he opened in New York last year, and no one can accuse him of reticence this time round. The cooking, while technically as faultless as you would expect, is undercut with bursts of frivolity and wit not usual from places weighed down with aspirations of three Michelin stars. An “English Breakfast” prestarter consisted of a duxelle of mushroom on an edible pastry spoon, a wafer-thin slice of pancetta, and an egg shell filled with scrambled duck egg, tomato and haricots blancs – egg, bacon and beans to you and me. A palate cleanser of intensely flavoured basil sorbet was served on an ice cube of Brobdingnagian proportions and was sprayed with an atomiser of balsamic vinegar at the table.

Elsewhere, suggestions that Ramsay would be using his restaurant to showcase British produce have proved wide of the mark. A trademark ravioli of langoustine and blue lobster did indeed come from Scotland, but the main course – milk-fed rack of lamb with ratatouille – was entirely French in its provenance and execution.

It was back across the Channel for the predessert of a Cambridge burnt cream, before returning to France for a Granny Smith parfait beneath a giant chocolate dome, and teamed not with a Sauternes, but vintage Normandy cider.

All in all, a bravura performance, but time will tell if it is enough to stop the French sharpening their guillotines.

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