Tom Aikens delivers a hedonistic outing for an unexpected anniversary

Last week marked not only five years since the start of the Iraq war, but the same anniversary for me with my current employer. I must confess to being far less surprised by the Americans still in Baghdad than I am by me still in this job.

I had assumed this would be my transition role between my foray into agency life and my return to a big IT services company. The first week was a carnival of madness, and it hasn't gotten much saner since. I've had seven bosses, four distinct roles, more than 10 iterations of staffs and few weeks in which I haven't been in search of a brick wall against which to bang my head in frustration. But for a person who rather likes solving problems and fixing things, all that lunacy has been compelling. Constant change repels boredom and brings opportunity. Every year gets more interesting, opens more doors and stretches me in new ways. Ergo, the unexpected anniversary arrived.

But who to celebrate with? I don't have a single colleague in the company today who was with me in those early years. I do, however, have a PR agency who's been with me since Day 1, with a couple of colleagues who've been through every twist and turn of this wild ride. Clearly, there couldn't be better company for a trip down this particular lane of memory.

The reminiscences, recaps and laughter (amazing how much fun the early traumas become in hindsight) took place at Tom Aikens, a magnificently understated yet elegant venue in the heart of uber-sophisticated Chelsea. Aikens is that rarest of things: a culinary wunderkind who hasn't done a TV show. He's famous mostly just for his cooking, being the youngest chef ever to win two Michelin stars, rather than for being a media personality. (The two stars were at a previous restaurant; this one has one.) Though he's certainly not publicity shy, as indicated by the eponymous restaurant.

Aikens opened this place in 2003 and it's been on my list to visit. But not, I admit, with my own money ... as in addition to regularly appearing on Top 10 "best" lists, it's also appeared on rankings for worst value for money, and taken criticism for being more hype than fulfillment. After a hugely enjoyable and very long lunch, I probably cast my vote in the middle. Perhaps not quite as good as other starred establishments, but it certainly deserves its place in London's foodie firmament.

We went for the tasting menu which, regular readers know, is an offer I am always unable to refuse. Even when Weight Watchers weigh in looms the next morning. Fortunately, an otherwise saintly week defrayed the damage of this nine course extravaganza, which I perhaps enjoyed with even more relish than usual after two months of good health and low fat. Foie gras has never tasted so tongue-paralysingly, magnificently "gras".

But once the novelty of abandoning abstinence for a day wore off, the critic returned. I found the dishes oddly uneven. Most were excellent, but a few far too complex for their own good.

Oddly, the magnificent tended to bookend the meal. The amuse bouche of duck mousse, infused throughout with flakes of black truffle, presented exactly the right contrast; light and teasing on the tongue, yet heavy with bold flavour. Three hours later, the petit fours were amongst the most beautiful and extravagant I've ever seen. Six long spoons, each with a small dollop of mousse or some other sweet. A bowl of madelaines, all different flavours. A bowl of chocolates. A toast rack of sweet wafers, almost translucent in their thinness. A shame that after the seven intervening courses, we sent most of that back to the kitchen. Other highlights were the foie gras mentioned above, marinated with beetroot and port, and the pan fried john dory with couscous.

The cheese trolley was pleasingly vast, though almost entirely French. I don't mind this in a French restaurant, but I do raise an eyebrow when an English chef makes that choice. This country is filled with magnificent artisan cheeses that can easily stand up to their Gallic competition. That said, the variety was big enough to allow me to have six different varieties of goat's cheese, which makes any day worth living.

It was the over-complexity that let Aikens down. As in "roast scallops with crushed celeriac, poached chicken wings and celeriac horseradish soup". The first two elements were beautiful; they were diminished by their companions. Or "roast salt marsh lamb with mashed potato, goat's cheese gnocchi, lamb sweetbread and potato crisps". Enough with the sides! The lamb was melt-in-the-mouth magnificent, and that from a person who hates lamb. Yet there was only one tiny piece of it, assembled in a montage with all those other bits. Each of which was tasty, but just too much. And then there was "pistachio meringue with pistachio mousse, praline and pistachio cassonade with pistachio jelly". I love pistachio desserts about as much as I hate lamb, and in other circumstances would have applauded the excess. But are multiple items really necessary in the first of three sweet courses? Scale it back, Tom. Even this hedonist was contemplating austerity by that point.

But the thing that would have had me taking their Michelin star away, had I been the inspector? When we arrived at after dinner drinks, a poor selection of single malts coupled with woeful ignorance on the part of the French waiter. When I asked for Speysides, he gave me a blank look and had to go ask the bar. Who told him they carried nothing from the largest whisky producing region in Scotland. Unable to suggest another option himself, I had to list my own alternatives until I hit on a bottle he had behind the bar. (A nice lowland Dalwhinnie, ideal for cutting all the richness of that meal.) I bet he rued the day he talked me into the after dinner drink.

Of course, I'm being horribly picky here. As you have the right to do when you're eating at one of the best restaurants in London. It deserves its accolades, it would simply be a bit better if Tom streamlined a few dishes and added some of the best of Britain to his francophile establishment. Perhaps, if I survive another five years of corporate madness, I'll check his progress at my next celebration.