It was supposed to be a joyous trip to one of Frances famous gastro palaces what could possibly go wrong?
Le Cinq, Four Seasons Htel George V, 31 avenue George V, 75008 Paris (00 331 49 52 71 54). Meal for two, including service and modest wine: 600 (520)
There is only one thing worse than being served a terrible meal: being served a terrible meal by earnest waiters who have no idea just how awful the things they are doing to you are. And so, to the flagship Michelin three-star restaurant of the
George V Hotel in Paris, or the scene of the crime as I now like to call it. In terms of value for money and expectation Le Cinq supplied by far the worst restaurant experience I have endured in my 18 years in this job. This, it must be said, is an achievement of sorts.
It wasnt meant to be so. Irritated by reader complaints about the cost of eating out I decided to visit a classic Parisian gastro-palace, as a reality check. I imagined it less as review, and more as an observational piece, full of moments of joy and bliss, of the sort only stupid amounts of cash can buy. Wed all have a good laugh at rich people and then return to business as usual, a little wiser. I chose Le Cinq, restaurant of
Christian Le Squer, named chef of the year by his peers in 2016. I assumed it would be whimsical, and perhaps outrageous. Never did I think the shamefully terrible cooking would slacken my jaw from the rest of my head.
The dining room, deep in the hotel, is a broad space of high ceilings and coving, with thick carpets to muffle the screams. It is decorated in various shades of taupe, biscuit and fuck you. Theres a little gilt here and there, to remind us that this is a room designed for people for whom guilt is unfamiliar. It shouts money much as football fans shout at the ref. Theres a stool for the ladys handbag. Well, of course there is.
Like a Barbie-sized silicone breast implant: amuse-bouches. Photograph: Jean-Claude Amiel
Menus the height of
Richard Osman are brought. My female companion, who booked the table, is given one without prices. Waiters look baffled when we protest, but replace it. Then again, having looked at those prices I suspect many people would wish never to see their like again. Starters and mains are roughly the same price, running from 70 to 140. Currently the exchange rate is 0.86 to 1. So thats 121 for a single plate of food.
All this comes with canaps and amuse-bouches, pre-desserts and bread and serious attitude. Almost all the pleasant things we eat come from the pastry section. Theres a compelling flaky brioche, to be eaten with cool, salty butter. There is, among the canaps, a tart of extremely thin pastry with a filling of whipped chicken liver mousse topped by diced cornichon. I could eat that again. At the end there are some pleasant enough chocolates. At these prices there should be.
Other things are the stuff of therapy. The canap we are instructed to eat first is a transparent ball on a spoon. It looks like a Barbie-sized silicone breast implant, and is a spherification, a gel globe using a technique perfected by
Ferran Adri at El Bulli about 20 years ago. This one pops in our mouth to release stale air with a tinge of ginger. My companion winces. Its like eating a condom thats been left lying about in a dusty greengrocers, she says. Spherifications of various kinds bursting, popping, deflating, always ill-advised turn up on many dishes. Its their trick, their shtick, their big idea. Its all they have. Another canap, tuile enclosing scallop mush, introduces us to the kitchens love of acidity. Not bright, light aromatic acidity of the sort provided by, say, yuzu. This is blunt acidity of the sort that polishes up dulled brass coins.
Sticky, like the floor at a teenagers party: gratinated onions. Photograph: Jean Claude Amiel
We hit it again in an amuse-bouche which doesnt: a halved and refilled passionfruit, the vicious passionfruit supplemented by a watercress pure that tastes only of the plants most bitter tones. My lips purse, like a cats arse thats brushed against nettles.
The cheapest of the starters is gratinated onions in the Parisian style. Were told it has the flavour of French onion soup. It makes us yearn for a bowl of French onion soup. It is mostly black, like nightmares, and sticky, like the floor at a teenagers party. There are textures of onions, but what sticks out are burnt tones, and spherified balls of onion pure that burst jarringly against the roof of the mouth. A dish of raw marinated scallops with sea urchin ice cream is a whack of iodine. It is the most innovative dish of the meal, though hardly revolutionary. Sea urchin ice cream turned up on
Iron Chef America back in the 90s.
A main of pigeon is requested medium, but served so pink it just might fly again given a few volts. It comes with brutally acidic Japanese pear and more of that flavourless watercress pure. A heap of couscous is mined with a tiny portion of lamb for 95. Like the watercress pure, it tastes of little. It comes with gummy pures, unpleasant spherifications of lamb stock and mushy, one-note
merguez sausages which are nothing of the sort. A sad, over-reduced sauce coagulates on the plate.
Draped in an elastic flap of milk skin: chocolate mousse cigars. Photograph: Jean-Claude Amiel
A dessert of frozen chocolate mousse cigars wrapped in tuile is fine, if you overlook the elastic flap of milk skin draped over it, like something thats fallen off a burns victim. A cheesecake with lumps of frozen parsley powder is not fine. I ask the waitress what the green stuff is. She tells me and says brightly: Isnt it great! No, I say. Its one of the worst things Ive ever eaten. It tastes of grass clippings. Parsley is brilliant with fish. But in cheesecake? They take it off the bill. With our mint tea, we are served an on-trend
kouign amann, a laminated caramelised pastry. Its burnt around the edges.
With this, we each drink one glass of champagne, one glass of white and one of red, chosen for us by the sommelier from a wine list that includes bottles at 15,000. The booze bill is 170. The overall bill is 600. Every single thing I ate at the restaurant
Skosh for a sixth of the price was better than this. Its bizarre. Not that the older gentlemen with their nieces on the few other occupied tables seem to care. The restaurant is never more than half full. Pictures of plates are snapped. Mind you I also take pictures, but mine are shot in the manner of a scene of crime officer working methodically.
I have spent sums like this on restaurant experiences before, and have not begrudged it. We each of us build our best memories in different ways, and some of mine involve expensive restaurants. But they have to be good. This one will also leave me with memories. They are bleak and troubling. If I work hard, one day, with luck, I may be able to forget.
Spot the difference
Some readers may notice a difference between my description of the onion dish mostly black, like nightmares and the picture of it above, which is golden and rather beautiful.
Theres a reason for this.
Le Cinq would not let us photograph their food, as we usually do after Ive reviewed, and insisted that we use press shots. This is extremely unusual. However, I did take pictures during the meal, on an iPhone 7 using the available light. And that makes things a little clearer, as you can see.
The onions. Photograph: The Guardian
In addition, Le Cinq only supplied a very limited selection of food images. However, I photographed most of the meal.
The pigeon. Photograph: Jay Rayner for the Guardian
And the chocolate mousse cigars, with skin. Photograph: The Guardian
If you want to read more on this you can visit my website
jayrayner.co.uk/news/. Jays news bites
If you want to do something stupidly spendy in Paris but cant quite manage the full Michelin three star, try the Ritz Hotel on Place Vendme. Head to the Hemingway Bar at the back, which reopened last year after a four-year break. Its a snug of golden wood, animal skulls and pictures of Papa Hemingway, who lost many afternoons here. Cocktails, by legendary head barman Colin Peter Field, are fabulous. Theyre also 30 a pop.
On 26 April top chefs including Lee Westcott from The Typing Room and Robin Gill from The Dairy will come together in east London with ex-offenders to cook for charity Key4Life, which tackles the root causes of re-offending. Tickets are 50. Visit
designmynight.comand search Key4Life. Chef Ernst Van Zyl is launching no-menu Tuesdays at his pub, the Hanging Gate in Cheshire. There will be a no-choice menu of dishes which are in development or that Van Zyl just fancied making that night. Hell also be looking for feedback and in return diners can decide how much to pay (
Jay Rayners new book, The Ten (Food) Commandments, is out now (6, Penguin ). To order a copy for 5.10, go to bookshop.theguardian.com
Email Jay at [email protected] or follow him on Twitter @jayrayner1