William visits Folie in London

‘I think that finding a home for sprouts outside of Christmas Day is as heartwarming as a puppy’

Brussels are not the only thing impressing William

Folie is like a Mayfair incursion into Soho. It’s a sort of French Cipriani, a shimmering, velvet and leather advance into Golden Square. In a part of town where it’s all media companies, T-shirts and small plates, Folie is like a woman disguised as a man who invades a Greek monastery.

There is a distinct feel of a club: of guest lists, of VIP ropes. Indeed, a heavy velvet curtain protects the entrance and the bar from the hubbub of the street. There is even a table at the far end that is on a slightly raised and narrower level, lending it a further air of exclusivity.

Perhaps Folie senses that there are in fact people in suits in Soho who yearn for some Mayfair glamour, but can’t be bothered to cross Regent Street. Folie is reaching out to them, offering a chi-chi lifeline. And what a bold move it is.

Word on the street is that the refit cost some £5 million, and that the young French restaurateur behind it may have a couple of years of rent liberation, but then he’s locked in for 25 years, and doubtless had to stump up a chunky deposit. The numbers are simply staggering, and while your critic can only admire the ambition, he cannot be swayed by these things. So is Folie indeed madness, is it aliénation mentale, imbécillité?

It is certainly comfortable. My ‘table for two’ was a large circular affair in the far corner of that top bit I mentioned. We could sit together and look out at the whole restaurant and the bar which, on about day two of its opening, was already draped with beautiful people.

The menu is south of France, the sort of thing you get somewhere smart in St Tropez or Nice. So we started with some salty nibbles to get us thirsty for wine. There were addictive little chickpea panisse (chips made from chickpeas) and pissaladière, tiny oniony pizzas laced with anchovy with an olive on top.

This did indeed have me grappling for a glass of wine and I ordered the cheapest white burgundy on the list: a Laforêt Bourgogne from Domaine Joseph Drouhin. It was £45, sharp and unfriendly. Although I’d approved it on sniffing, I beckoned the sommelier to remonstrate. In the most charming way possible, he indicated that I was an ignorant git for ordering it as it was an ‘entry level’ burgundy. This invading Mayfair army needs to get to know the Soho natives… Fortunately, I then spied a favourite Château Unang – from the Ventoux – which at £39 a bottle had a price that matched its fabulousness.

Then we ploughed on through the menu. Some octopus roasted in charcoal was excellent, although it was paired with butternut squash, which I always have a problem with unless it’s made into soup. I can’t enjoy the texture – thick and sludgy, like a test for people who are growing teeth. But I enjoyed the tart flutter of parsley on top. There was tuna tartare, served with Brussels-sprout leaves – that was ingenious. I once made a triumphant Brussels-sprout Caesar salad for a party before Christmas and I like to think it almost topped the Queen’s speech and John Lewis advert for festive chat that year. I think that finding a home for sprouts outside of Christmas Day is as heartwarming as a puppy.

There were some very fine tenderstems of broccoli with chilli – al dente and charred – and while the sauce on my veal paillard was beautifully flecked with olives, the meat was just a little tough.

But Folie has atmosphere and the confident, sophisticated service of a grown-up establishment at ease with itself. Courage mon brave, and bon chance. With a promised cheaper lunch menu, if this place is full week in, week out the courageous owner might just escape with his shirt in 25 years’ time.