A return to Maze disappoints, while the Restaurant at St. Pauls is a find

Maze is, perhaps, a concept too redolent of boom times to mature well through a recession.

The idea is French tapas, the motivation is variety. This Grosvenor Square-based outpost of the Gordon Ramsay empire suggests that by sampling a profusion of small, exquisitely prepared dishes you can have all the elegance of fine dining with the quantity and range of bar food. The prices, of course, go with the elegance. Obviously, the scheme has worked, because Maze boasts sister establishments in New York and Melbourne. I loved it when I first visited, liked it on the second foray, but found myself cooling precipitously toward the place by the end of the third try.

We were there to try the recession-friendly tasting menu: four courses for £28.50, add matching wines to bring the total to £40. It was a Monday night and the place was about a third empty. Yet the staffing levels seemed set for a full house, with more than a score of waiters, bus boys and sommeliers in sight. We settled in to our table and expected to be swaddled in attention. Bring on issue number one: The service was as slow as if they'd been pitifully understaffed. We waited 20 minutes or more between courses, which might work in a normal restaurant but isn't logical when you're working your way through little bites designed to be tasted in succession and designed not to be too filling. Frankly, by the time another course arrived, any feeling of being full from the last had evaporated, and I think we both quietly wished we'd bumped up to the six course menu so that we'd have felt a little more satisfied upon our departure.

The food is still exquisitely presented and the combinations innovative. The best part of the meal was actually the wine flight. Rather than having a range of wines selected by the chef to match the food, you chose from trios grouped into categories. The red flight, the white, the mixed, etc. We went for the Spanish, featuring two whites and one particularly delicious red from the Duero valley. All three were unusual, interesting and presented by a sommelier who was excited by the choices and his chance to tell us about them. Our complaint here? All the flights were glasses of three, rather than quantities designed to match the numbers of courses.

But it's not a wine bar, it's a restaurant, and the tastes in the food no longer impressed me as good enough to stand on their own without the tapas gimmick. John Dory with Jerusalem artichokes in a creamy sauce was good, but someone in the kitchen hadn't prepped properly, leaving crunchy grit in the vegetables. "Barbecued" salmon was a raw rectangle that had been briefly flamed by a chef's blowtorch. Not a problem for sushi lovers, but not the anticipated main course. Several dishes had elements that enhanced the presentation but didn't actually taste very good, like a stick of rhubarb sheathed in gelatin. Pretty as a Murano glass bead, but flavourless and unpleasantly globular in the mouth. For no dish did I think "I'd love to have a full sized portion of this," although a lamb roast that fell in shreds off its bone came close.

I was rather embarrassed later in the week, that the place I selected with little thought for a business lunch beat the carefully chosen, special occasion Maze hands down. The Restaurant at St. Paul's is in the crypt of the mighty cathedral, hived off to one side and separated by solid walls from the tourists' cafe and gift shop. The space has architectural grandeur, without doubt: Soaring groin vaults, massive slabs of stone, someone's grandiose 18th century tomb draped with weeping angels visible just through the door. A clever designer has built different levels into the space, giving the dining room a sense of theatre and cutting down just a bit on the echo off the lofty roof. (Be warned, this is not the place for a quiet chat.)

Australian Chef Candice Webber is inspired by all things British and has put together a seasonal menu that celebrates all that is good and unique about the food of this island. Rather than pointing to the number of Michelin stars here as denial of that old myth of bad British food, I'll hold this place up as testament to just how good ... and worthy of attention ... the native cuisine here is.

I started with a rabbit roll; sausage made with rabbit meat (a gamey taste somewhere between chicken and pork) rolled in the lightest of puff pastries. Delicious. Across the table, my colleague was raving about her chicken livers in a rich sauce ladled over pieces of toast. For mains, she had steak from a cut called the hanging tender, which evidently has an almost liver-y taste because it's from a bit of the body that does so little exercise. My taste revealed something rich and cooked just enough to preserve the flavour. This is what beef should be. Meanwhile, my plaice allowed me to think I was being much healthier, and was also beautifully prepared. Given how good the first two courses were, and the minute difference between two courses for £20 and three for £24, we opted for pudding. The apple crumble across the table was gorgeously presented in a modern tower, but tasted as traditional as that prepared by someone's grandmother in the country who really knows how to cook. I opted for the cheese, given the presence of Stichelton, that delicious unpasteurised Stilton that's one of a kind.

This is the kind of food that makes both your stomach and your brain proud to be British. Which makes sense, frankly, when you're eating a stone's throw from where Lord Nelson is resting for eternity. Rule, Britannia. And give me another slice of that Wensleydale, while you're at it.

Bursting with potential, it's the little stuff that lets Wokefield Park down

If clothes make the man, then it's interior decoration that makes the hotel and restaurant. Or, at least, sets your expectations for the place.

Homey and half timbered with a teenager behind the bar sends one message. An abundance of French rococo another. These days, there's a standard five star look. A combination of historic architecture with modern interior design. Neutral tones (often "mushroom" or the palest of mauves) accented with one deep shade ("aubergine" shows up a lot), furniture with clean lines, ornate light fixtures, black and white photography or a bit of modern art and huge, structural flower arrangements. It was just this look that framed our anticipation as we arrived at Wokefield Park for a weekend of fine dining and spa indulgence.

A tree-lined avenue runs straight for about a mile to an austerely beautiful Georgian pile sitting on a slight rise. Someone with a sensitive touch designed the modern hotel extensions, which blend into the main block smoothly. The main entrance, through the new addition, is an architecturally striking atrium soaring two generous stories with a sloping glass roof and a dominant central stair. Our room was one of the most beautiful, and biggest, I've ever occupied, with couches, a table for four, flat screen TV, a hallway of fitted wardrobes, loads of gorgeous design touches and a massive bathroom complete with oval tub set into recessed alcove and shower room with double sets of jets from both the ceiling and the wall. Impressive, in anyone's estimation.

Then you start to notice the little things. Despite the expansive space, the room has only a queen-sized bed, looking strangely adrift between its wide borders of emptiness. The duvet and pillows are fibre-filled rather than down and the linens have the feel of polyester blend. No dressing gowns (despite this being billed as a spa hotel) and nothing but the most basic soap and shampoo in the bathroom. Nothing criminal, but odd little lapses from what normally goes with this environment.

And that was, in a nutshell, our experience all weekend. A look that promised 5-star, with service, quality and design that fell just short and left you puzzled. Maid service skipped us on Saturday and we had to chase someone down. A fuse blew and left us without room lights for a while. No ice due to a broken machine. Overall, a genial but rather slow (both in speed and mental acuity) staff of youngsters who seemed to be in their first tentative year of catering college. The spa and pool were in completely different buildings with a long, cold walk in between. No relaxation room in the spa, no cubicles to store your clothes and ... for the first time in my experience ... no dressing gowns. The quality was variable, with me getting a great massage but my partner being deeply disappointed.

The chef presented food with a top restaurant, gourmet look, but with a steak overcooked here, a chip in the china there, a tacky plastic table number on a tall metal spike in our otherwise elegantly-laid table. A lovely rose crafted of smoked salmon had slightly crusty edges that betrayed preparation too long before the meal. Service gaps between courses were almost painfully long. Slightly confused teenagers plopped wine from the competent and reasonably priced list unceremoniously on your table, unopened, rather than the usual presentation, opening and sampling; rather a problem when you get a bottle with a cork rather than a screw top. The dining room made a fine effort all around, and had we been eating in a gastropub I would have been impressed. But the elegant early impressions had hinted at so much more.

As we wandered around the wider resort we began to sense the reason for all these little misfires. Wokefield Park is clearly a corporate conference centre rather than a hotel pitching to individual consumers. A modern complex nearby has an obviously corporate atrium lined with conference rooms and break-out areas. Everything (including, I expect, the staff) is geared for big business events and banquets. Would I have been as sensitive to the lack of all those little touches had I been here for a three-day training break with 100 colleagues. Probably not.

Fact is, we had a nice break, and we got a great deal. Two nights, dinner on the Saturday and an hour-long spa treatment for each of us cost what the massage and food would have toted up to alone in most other places. And we are admittedly picky: with the man having started out in hotel and restaurant management and me being an avid consumer of, and blogger about, them, we're both mildly obsessed by the little things. We couldn't help noticing that some simple management changes could make this place really great. But then, perhaps, it wouldn't have been such a bargain. With the same deal, I'd be happy to go back. I'd just know to bring my own dressing gown, corkscrew, bath salts, moisturiser ... and patience.

Musical ponderings, as Valentines Day approaches

It was Shakespeare who called music the food of love, and I suspect he captured one of the constants in the human condition. Whether it's tunes strummed along with a Roman banquet, Renaissance madrigals, operatic arias or today's top 40, the minute someone combines words and tunes the topic is usually love. Songs of heartache, desire, euphoria, longing ... anyone who's ever been emotionally fragile (and who hasn't been?) recognises the danger of turning on the radio.
The playlists on my iPod are all named after locations, with "The Lakefill" being my best love songs mix. That was the strip of parkland running between Lake Michigan and Northwestern's campus, and the location you inevitably headed to, bag of M&Ms in hand and sorority sister at your side, to discuss the trials and tribulations of your latest passion. Two decades later it lives on as the digital location I visit when my heart needs more attention than my head.

A funny thing happened to that playlist a few months ago. I fell in love. In a proper, grown-up, pain free manner that was completely mutual. And it was time to mix up the tunes. Because, you see, for years "The Lakefill" has been populated by poignant ballads of longing, unrequited desire and unfulfilled hopes. Here was its Top 10, pre-October:

You don't know me ... Michael Buble
The man I love ... Peggy Lee
I can't get started with you ... Barry Manilow
Let's be friends ... Bruce Springsteen
Got you under my skin ... Frank Sinatra
Open your heart to me ... Madonna
I try ... Macy Gray
In the wee, small hours of the morning ... Carly Simon
Something to talk about ... Bonnie Raitt
When I fall in love ... Nat King Cole

Admittedly, there are some toe tappers in here. But listen to the lyrics and the overall tone is pretty somber. Great music. Music that captures a mood and wraps itself around your heart. But this is a list of frustration, hunger and emptiness, to which more than a few tears have been shed over the years.

And then I re-arranged that playlist. The melancholy longing of "You don't know me" got kicked right out of The Lakefill, as did almost everything else on the list. Here's the new Top 10.

I got the world on a string ... Frank Sinatra
Blue Skies ... Bobby Darin
Walking on Sunshine ... Katrina and the Waves
Almost like being in love ... Gene Kelly (from Brigadoon)
Ain't that a kick in the head ... Dean Martin
So in love ... Harry Connick, Jr.
All this I give to you ... Jeremy Northiam (from the Gosford Park soundtrack)
'Swonderful ... Ella Fitzgerald
Waiting for tonight ... Jennifer Lopez
You're my home ... Billy Joel

Now that's an upbeat list. Listen to these lyrics and you'll wallow in joy, contentment, satisfaction ... even glee. The very best of the human condition. I will confess to have found myself skipping down the South Bank on the way to work, silly grin on my face as earphones pump these delightful tunes through my soul. Undignified? Yes. I don't really care. Music is indeed the food of love, and at the moment I'm eating well.

Poor Count Orsino. You may remember that he was the one who spoke those Shakespearean lines. And he was quite depressed when he did so. Languishing in unrequited passion, he said:

"If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die."

Of course Orsino realised that you can't have too much of a good thing. He learned instead to change the direction of his desires, and found a love that was right for him. No doubt, had they had iPods in 16th century Illyria, he would have been shuffling his playlists, too.

Happy Valentines Day to all.

La Distillerie repeats magic to remain pick as ultimate restaurant

There's always an element of risk when you try to repeat a magical experience. Without the sparkling novelty of discovery, can a second time ever live up to the first?

Thus I approached dinner last Saturday at La Distillerie in Luxembourg's Bourglinster Castle with a bit of trepidation. This place amazed and delighted me on a magical afternoon 18 months ago (see my original review here) and has reigned as the supreme restaurant in my memory ever since. Would it be as good as I remembered?

Better.

Foodies of the world, listen up. Your correspondent has reviewed a healthy number of Michelin stared establishments in these posts. La Distillerie is better. I've been to the three-starred Fat Duck, which appears in most rankings as one of the top three restaurants in the world, and I promise you that chef René Mathieu will give you an equally extraordinary meal, with even better tastes, for £100 less. In a charming, small dining room that accommodates just eight or ten tables of unpretentious diners, in medieval architecture with lovely views of unspoiled countryside. Come hungry, and do the works. The "Poesie Culinaire" features 11 amazing courses, with a matching wine flight of seven well coordinated, interesting glasses. And, obviously, come here with people you like. Because you're going to be sharing this remarkable experience for at least four hours.

Chef Mathieu comes to Luxembourg via Belgium, and spent three years cooking for the grand duke before moving to this small castle half an hour outside of Luxembourg city. He combines an ardent passion for "terroir" and local, seasonal food with an artistry once deployed to delight diplomats and crowned heads of Europe. He changes his menu with the seasons; our winter meal was entirely different from our last visit in July, and featured lots of root vegetables, fish and meat. (This variety is what I wanted upon my return visit to the Fat Duck, instead getting 50 per cent of the menu repeated. When you're dining at this level, and paying these prices, you want to repeat the quality, but not the exact food.)

We started with Mathieu's trademark "apericubes", little bite sized morsels atop skewers arranged in a mix of colours and shapes that made the dish as much modern art as appetiser. Some were more delicious than others, particularly the foie gras dipped in chocolate. (The only repeat from the last meal, but even this was done a bit differently.) A strange but glorious combination. The next amuse bouche was less successful if, like me, you're not a fan of poached eggs. The egg sat delicately in a small wine glass, surrounded by a light cauliflower sauce. Though I couldn't quite like the egg, I have to admit that the sauce completely transformed my opinion of a vegetable I thought I hated. The maximum amount of flavour had been extracted, convincing me that if every floret tasted like this, I'd be a fan.

Then it was time to get down to serious business, with a progression of four fish dishes. Each was remarkably different from the other, giving you a great appreciation for just how wide the possibilities are when dealing with seafood. Each plate was exquisite, particularly the crab claw that had been arranged on a painting of cucumber sauce that turned the plate into a piece of Italian marbled paper. Another course had a rich, buttery piece of langoustine tucked into a hollow in a hot stone, covered with a pile of delicate froth (rather than sauce) that melted in your mouth. But my favourite dish in this range was the scallop with carrots. Sounds fairly prosaic, eh? The single scallop at the centre of the long, rectangular plate was succulent and perfectly done. On either side, two quenelles of carrot puree. These showed off the range of colour and taste, running from white, to yellow, to the familiar orange, to black. Like the cauliflower, each taste was a concentrated burst of the essence of the vegetable, and the difference between flavours in each variety was wonderfully surprising.

Having done justice to the seas, it was time to move inland and start working towards a flavour climax. Bring on the foie gras. In this case, grilled in Lagavulin whisky, and the universally acknowledged favourite dish of the night. The main essence here was smoke: the plates came out under glass domes, whisked away simultaneously so we could each breathe deeply of aromas of charcoal, peat, smoke and meat. One whiff was the condensation of every chilly but delightful winter bonfire you've ever attended. The whisky was a surprisingly fine match to the foie gras, complemented by the sweet flavours of dried fruits and Jerusalem artichoke.

La Distillerie features a charming maitre d' with a remarkable memory; he clearly recalled our visit in the summer of 2008. He took us through our matching wines, up to this point introducing us to four different whites. In fact, the range of the wine selections was pleasingly broad, escaping the usual parade of French classics to include the USA, Italy, Chile and even Luxembourg. My favourite amongst the whites was the Wente "Morning Fog" Chardonnay '06 that was matched with the foie gras; delightful to see a Californian option showing off for European gourmets. The rest of the table leaned towards the Ciprea Pecorino, matched with a white fish slow cooked with truffles. No, not pecorino cheese, but a little known Italian grape variety from the Abruzzi and Marche regions. The wine was complex in flavor, deep golden in colour and almost musky in scent, reminding me of some of the best chablis we tried on our Burgundy trip. While my taste buds went for the simpler American notes, the Pecorino was definitely the discovery of the night.

In fact, red wine lovers would have been disappointed, as there was only one offering with the main courses. This was a classic Burgundy from Sauvigny les Beaune, which had a pleasing combination of fruit and sharpness well suited to cut the rich, fatty luxury of the veal that came next. The meat here was a bit of a let down after the perfection of the foie gras, but I was deeply impressed by the side dish, a bar of parsnip and cabbage mash dressed with boiled whole grains and topped with liquorice (not the candy, the actual root).

We'd peaked. It was clearly time to transition to the sweets. Cheese, please. And out came one of the most unusual cheese boards I've ever sampled, with four bite-sized morsels each composed to pack a flavourful punch while pushing you to consider interesting combinations. My pick: goat's cheese wrapped around a grape, topped by a beetroot puree. The soft cheese with banana and rum has to be mentioned for the sheer bravado of the pairing, though I wouldn't do it at home. Brie with truffles and celery milk, however? Happy to eat that again, though I couldn't possibly figure out how to produce it in my own kitchen. We were sipping the first of two dessert wines here, a chardonnay/sauvignon blanc mix that reminded me how good sweet whites are with cheese, and how limited we can be in England always pairing with the port.

By this time our taste buds were overwhelmed with musky, strong notes and a palate freshener was in order. And out came ... perfume. The chef presented us with a culinary interpretation of Yves Saint Laurent's Parisienne, the scent sprayed on a card next to a dessert of dark berries, cream, flower petals and white chocolate that somehow managed to exactly mimic the perfume, while tasting like a dream. And finally to dessert, an artistic compilation of four sweets arranged, as per those long-ago apericubes, as much as modern art as food. While each taste was delightful, the cube of dark chocolate fondant dipped in white chocolate and then coated in gold leaf was the one we all went home remembering. This was a chocolate bar for the very rich, and very picky. Paired with this was a sparkling red wine called Desiderio from Italy's Piedmont region, another much discussed discovery. Of course, there was another artistic platter of sweets to accompany the coffee. A chocolate morsel here, some glazed fruit there ... after the 10 preceding courses and eight glasses of wine, I can't remember all the details of this, other than recalling that it was all so good, I wished I had room to try everything. But alas, even my avaricious taste buds had given up in sheer, happy exhaustion.

The cost for a night of decadent indulgence? At current exchange rates, £150 including service, coffee and an additional champagne before we got started. As mentioned at the start, this is a full £100 less than the chef's menu with wine flight at the Fat Duck. Of course, you have to get to Luxembourg. But if you're looking to say "carpe diem" in a big way, this is the place. Get there now, before René Mathieu is discovered by Michelin, American food writers and the rest of the arbiters of foodie heaven. He's already been named chef of the year in Luxembourg and been awarded 18 out of 20 on the Gault Millau scale. International acclaim is bound to follow the local fame, and he'll soon have prices and waiting lists like his more famous colleagues. I'm going to be very happy to say "I knew him when..."