Maison François, London

For heaven's sake, keep the chef away from the bottle! And before anyone in the kitchen is tempted to consult Messrs Sue, Grabbit & Runne, no dipsomaniac tendencies are implied. Read on.

We chose this place because of its location. Our normal residence when in the capital is a decent 4* hotel not far from here. The location is terrific, and by London standards their prices aren't too astronomical. On our day of departure lunch was called for and we didn't want to have to lug suitcases about. Richard Corrigan's Bentley's used to be the port of call, but he's venturing into second mortgage territory these days.

I'd passed Maison François many a time, but never really fancied it. No idea why, as I love the idea of a classic French brasserie. Perhaps it's because they gleam, wink at you and before you know it you find yourself sucked inside and ensconced at a table. MF doesn't even engage in mild flirtation. This was definitely a lunch instigated by convenience, not by passion. I popped in the previous day to make the reservation, and was underwhelmed by the beige decor. It looked as though it had been there for a long time and seen better days. Sort of dusty déco.

How wrong can you be? It was established in 2020 and named for François O'Neill, whose dad Hugh has been round the restaurant block for a long time. The focal point is a very large clock looking like a vintage watch. Is that an appropriate welcome in an eating place, especially these days when the fashion is to chuck you out at your allotted minute, no quarter given?

Another feature of a grande brasserie is the superficial slickness of the waiters. Yes, the shoes may be down at heel and the suits old, but the first impressions are always sharp. Here waiters are clad in soft brown jackets eerily reminiscent of old fashioned ironmongers' shops. And for some reason, they have teeshirts underneath. I don't know when our waiter Dylan last laundered his. I hope it was more recently than the ironing of his jacket.

Friendly enough and definitely French. (Yes, I know that may be an oxymoron when it comes to waiters.) Bizarrely, when asked his place of origin he replied, Normandy and Brittany. Eh? A mixed marriage, it transpired, mum from one, dad from the other. Or have I got that the wrong way round? The more perceptive among you will be gleaning our first impressions of what was then a large, sparsely inhabited space.

Things changed. The place filled rapidly. Sam the sommelier was rather more appropriately dressed. When our first wine choice was unavailable he pointed me in the direction of a wine I didn't know, from Savoie. Clean and crisp, unlike most of the waiting staff. While it's a long list, I do wonder about their stocks. When a Parisian couple at the next table ordered, they were told that it was the last bottle of their choice. Still, by this time the joint was jumping, and we were surrounded by beautiful people. Mostly young and glamorous. The Parisienne next door, though perhaps what someone might describe as middle class and of a certain age, outshone them all in the elegance stakes.

The first thing you notice about the food is that it's not brought by the waiters, but by the chefs. Surely the only good bit about being a waiter is to see the smiles of delight on customers' faces as the plates arrive? Poor Dylan only gets to clear up and set tables. The menu has most of the French classics, but rather more veg and salads than one normally finds in France. Onion soup was the usual bubbling cauldron and met with approval. A combo of anchovies and burrata on garlic bread was unusual but tasty enough.

Mains, the chef and the bottles. Vinegar, gentlemen, is a powerful thing, to be used in moderation. My poisson du jour was monkfish, cooked on the bone (technically incorrect, but sounds so much better than on the cartilage, don't you think?) And very nice it was too, once I managed to avoid some soused horror. I now forget precisely what it was, but the accompaniment to L's excellent halibut will live forever in the tastebuds. The first bite of the endive brought back a distant memory. Raspberry vinegar! Who knew it was still manufactured, let alone used? And far, far too much of it was swimming on the plate. Pommes Anna were done in the form of individual bricks, and very good they were too if you kept them on a separate part of your dining plate.

Jeremy Prakhin

Every review I've read of MF since our visit has rhapsodised about the dessert trolley. I see it referred to on the mini menu, but bizarrely it features not on the extensive dessert menu itself and we didn't see it in action. Clearly something of which they are proud, as pastry chef Jérémy Prakhin is name checked on the menu. I find it hard to go past a Paris Brest, a glorious combo of choux pastry, praline, hazelnuts and cream. Not too shabby, Mr Prakhin.

Despite the buts, we quite enjoyed ourselves. But...the decor, the waiter, the vinegar. At least one but too far.