I ate here, so you don’t have to!
Bagatelle London 24 Dover Street, Mayfair, London W1★★★★★ (no stars)
THE chemical compound 2, 4- dithiapentane gives bad breath, flatulence and smelly feet their unique, well, stink. The synthetic version is also the primary aromatic additive in commercial truffle oil, that hateful, heinous ingredient so beloved by asbestos- palated chefs the world over. It’s a scourge, a blight, a pestilence and plague. And an unguent that seems to fuel Bagatelle, an ‘international clubstaurant chain’ with branches in St Barth, Dubai, Monte Carlo, Miami and Punta del Este. Don’t you just love it already?
Anyway, they’ve just opened in the heart of Mayfair. Of course they have. I mean, where else would a sexy, swanky, crayzee ‘ clubstaurant’ chain open but in the throbbing heart of hedgefunder land?
But first, the rules. ‘ Our dress code is casual chic,’ trills the website. Whatever the hell that is. Thankfully, they’re there to provide firm sartorial guidance. ‘For men, we advise wearing a collared shirt, dress pants/dark denim and dress shoes.’ Whatever the hell they are. ‘Athletic wear is strictly prohibited. For women, dresses and heels are appropriate.’ Meaning, presumably, that trousers and skirts are not.
Suitably inspired, I slip into my Gino Ginelli slacks, white Pravda shirt and Nobs moccasins, drape a maroon cashmere sweater artfully over my shoulder, splash my cheeks with a spritz of Lynx Liberia, and slink down Dover Street, ready to release my inner Euro. I’m excited. But a little apprehensive. Because the atmosphere, promises that website, can get ‘lively’. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up.
Anyway, we walk into a vast space, filled with bad art and worse atmosphere, where rubbish Euro dance music pounds from a good sound system, and a DJ takes centre stage. It’s nightclub-dim, and packed with noisy, overconfident men in white shirts and dark denim, who wear big, chunky watches that scream ‘I’m the sort of fella who just loves a jet-set clubstaurant’. The place stinks of truffle oil, fake tan and testosterone-laden despair. In fact, the only glimmer of light comes from the staff, who are as lovely as they are professional. I ask whether they receive all of the 13.5 per cent service shoved onto the bill. There’s an embarrassed shrug, before they l ook away. That’ll be a no, I presume.
The menu is apparently inspired by the food of Provence. So we order that Southern French classic, Sliders Rossini, which comes with foie gras and black truffle mayonnaise. Very few things are allowed to leave the kitchen without a daub of truffle or foie gras or caviar. Luxury ingredients, you know. And Bagatelle is all about the luxury. The sliders are perfectly OK, as is a pizza. Well it would be, were it not priced at 34 quid. And slathered with white truffle oil. They sure saw us coming.
The bass pumps, the bankers shout and the atmosphere starts to resemble a Milton Keynes night- club. On Ladies’ Night. With ‘all you can drink WKD and Sambuca’ Meanwhile, we consider the Mayfair Bagatelle Seafood Platter Extravaganza. ‘Order at your own risk,’ warns the menu. And at £450, I see their point. Seeing as the ever wonderful Scott’s does one, with lobster, for £62 per person, this price seems beyond belief. I’m sure there’s caviar involved but really. Really. There’s a decent Iberico chop, at £42, but the sweet meat is overwhelmed by a sturm und drang of lemon and paprika. Gnocchi, at £19 for a starter portion, would be fine too, were it not for a brutal black truffle sauce. Chips taste of old oil. Ewan pokes disconsolately at a magret de canard rôti that is remarkable only for the fact it contains no truffle oil, caviar or foie gras.
On the next-door table, they start dancing. But inside, we’re crying. A charming sommelier makes things better briefly, but really, the angst and depression we feel, both existential and actual, is unshakeable. This is a place so awful that even its mother couldn’t love it. Yet it’s bound to survive, while other, better, smaller, cheaper places fall by the wayside. Such is the law of the Mayfair jungle.
We escape, before the jeroboams of Dom Perignon start arriving on white stallions, accompanied by a fireworks display and Curtis Stigers live. ‘This has to be the worst restaurant I’ve ever been to in my life,’ says Ewan, a man who knows of what he speaks. ‘I feel cheated.’ Outside, the muggy Mayfair air is scented with petrol fumes and fag smoke. Untainted by truffle oil and conspicuous consumption, it tastes delicious. Reader, I endured this place so you don’t have to. Like 2, 4dithiapentane, it stinks. I have found hell. And its name is Bagatelle.
£150 per head. More, if you want. Of course you want to spend more. Because here, greed is good.