Latium, Fitzrovia

I’m developing something of a disgruntlement about mid-priced restaurants. Maybe I’m getting old, or tight, but I would far rather go to a seriously fantastic restaurant once or twice a year, spending perhaps £100 a head or more, and eat in Pizza Express the rest of the time, than fork out £40-50 on something that isn’t really that much more special than a good gastropub burger.

Latium’s in the price bracket that I would cheerfully never revisit. The food was tasty, cleverly thought-out, well-presented and constructed using quality ingredients. The buffalo mozzarella was divine – but serving it with oven-roasted tomatoes, a mixed salad and slices of courgette was hardly inspired. My duck was good – but no better than the duck in The Stonemason’s Arms, Hammersmith. I’ll grudgingly admit that my dessert of yoghurt and berries was gorgeous.

I didn’t hate Latium – no one could, it’s not interesting enough to inspire hated – but I’d challenge someone to love it. And at nearly £30 for three courses, plus more for wine, for every 2.5 trips to a Latium-priced eaterie, you can go to Petrus once – surely an exchange no sane person would hesitate to make?

L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon, Covent Garden

In 1989, Joel Robuchon was voted Chef of the Century in France and his international restaurants currently hold seventeen Michelin stars between them, more than any other chef in the world. It’s fair to say I was pretty freaking excited about going to L’Atelier.

Merely stepping inside is a sensory shock. The room is dark red and glossy black with high seats around three sides of a huge cooking area and a double-height wall of succulent green plants. Think futuristic, Japanese Cheers with heavily-accented French waiting staff instead of Ted Danson. It was stunning and different and I was impressed – but I would’ve eaten the food in an ammonia-scented slurry pit. I’m not religious but I think Joel Robuchon may be divine – how else could he discover the combination of foie gras, port and parmesan for an amuse bouche, for example? Or the spectacular crab on guacamole and tomato? Oh god, or that mushroom and egg number that tasted like ambrosia? The duo of desserts were equally glorious and demanded a requiem to be sung as we swallowed them and mourned their loss. I love my food but it’s not often I’m silenced by it. Flawless.

Le Coq D'Argent, 1 Poultry

To my knowledge, I’ve never been to a Conran restaurant. This is odd because I live in London, developed a bizarre addiction to Habitat at a tender age and love eating in restaurants almost more than anything else on the planet. Sunbathing’s high on the list but going to a restaurant with a tan is surely the pinnacle of existence. Pallid, nonetheless I eagerly awaited my team’s Christmas lunch at the Coq D’Argent, a Conran eaterie in the heart of the City.

And it was lovely. Good service (despite some inter-staff bitching), delicious food (I had an excellent pigeon salad, rack of lamb and a chocolate fondant), wonderful wine and, since my bosses were paying, I didn’t have to be concerned about l’addition. But would I pay to go back there in my own time? Certainly not. Yes, it was packed – but it was soulless; delicious – but unimaginative; nice – but not special.

I don’t blame Sir Terrance – he certainly has the popular touch and the place was heaving – but for the money it wasn’t exceptional enough; my strongest memory is not the food but a fantastic game of Shag, Marry or Cliff. Could do better.

The French House, Soho

The bright bar downstairs is a delightful melange of bad pop art, complimentary olives and chesty barmaids who look like extras from Les Mis, with a sardined clientele who are still visibly livid about the smoking ban. But walk upstairs into the mirrored dining room and you’ll find an altogether different atmosphere: a handful of quiet tables, fantastic waiters and an air of refinement not in evidence three metres below.

The menu was the perfect length: the vegetarian selection was slightly lameass but I suppose that’s to be expected in a French restaurant. My pork was tasty although I won’t be ordering black pudding stuffing again in a hurry; my friend’s salmon looked nice but predictable. While the main courses lacked creativity, the desserts menu looked like an LSD trip in comparison. I had the apple and pecan crumble served with rum and raisin ice cream and white chocolate sauce, but like a good When Harry Met Sally fan, I ditched the two accompaniments and had it à la mode instead – much better.

Admittedly there were no fantastic surprises but there were no nasty shocks either and as a safe bet in Soho, The French House has it sorted.

Sway, Covent Garden

When I’ve visited Sway’s bar in the past it has always been heaving so I was surprised to find a near-empty restaurant and similarly startled when I saw the menu. For such a central location, the prices were unusually low: around £6 for a burger, Caesar salad or fish and chips. Sure, the choices were uninspiring but with an additional 50% off all food deal, courtesy of toptable.co.uk, it felt a bit like eating in Primark – so cheap, it seemed churlish not to buy one of everything.

In the end, we ordered six tapas for £10 (should’ve been £20). The deep fried element was disappointing; we left most of our tempura ‘king’ prawns which were about as regal as a night out in Basildon, but we loved the humous, and the halloumi and grilled tomato skewers were a definite highlight.

The faintly disturbing WCs are worth a mention – as grotty as they come, finished off with a vase of tall, crumbling flowers that were so dead they’d started to smell. For a bargain bite pre-cinema, Sway was spot on, but if you’re a serious foodie or lean towards OCD when it comes to public facilities, stay away.