Gordon Ramsay at Claridge’s, London

Hotels and sex.

They go together like hand in glove, peas in a pod. No matter where you travel in the world the two are intimately linked. Hotels tend to operate with a faux innocence of knowing ‘nod-and-wink’ discretion, where no-questions-asked yields least embarrassment for all. Such an approach fosters in many establishments an embassy-like feeling of detachment from the real world where subsequently, anything goes; you only have to look around the cocktail bar of an upmarket London hotel to understand what I mean. When pitched against a fluid cast of constantly changing residents it can lead to a charged atmosphere.

Despite this association, some sophisticated hotels are just plain sexy. They make you feel special. They don’t need dubious comings and goings from their guests to add frisson and excitement to a stay. James Bond lives in these hotels, rock stars become room-wrecking legends in these hotels. Whether it’s sleek dark-wood design or old-school OTT refinement, their luxuriousness and depth of service lifts you out of your everyday existence and makes it possible to indulge in fantasies of your own making. Sexy hotels empower everyone in this way. Other hotels are sexy in a seedy, by-the-hour, way. I tend not to stay in such places, so I can’t really say much about them.

All of this was flying around my head as I reclined in the lobby of Claridge’s, London, waiting for my gorgeous date to return from the powder room after we had taken a particularly long and liquid(ish) lunch at Gordon Ramsay. Watching another huge business man squire his pneumatic date (or daughter, I couldn’t decide) across the ornate lobby I got to thinking about the sexiness of the meal and restaurant we’d just experienced. I concluded that, in sexiness terms at least, the experience was the dining equivalent of driving to a classic Lake District beauty spot to admire the view, only to find the car park you’d chosen was hosting the annual Cumbrian dogging championships (for those of you who might be unsure, I would classify that as decidedly un-sexy).

Passing through the glorious Claridge’s foyer, already replete with afternoon-tea’rs, we entered the dining room and were shown to our well-positioned table. The art-deco refinement of the room was tainted by the very apparent over-crowding of diners and tables. Even at our 14:15 sitting the room was full-to-bursting and although this benefitted the atmosphere in terms of ‘buzz’, it created a canteen-like feel, which somewhat dampened my anticipations of ‘special-ness’. In sexiness terms, it was a bit like trying to get down to it with your grandparents in the room next door. It’s not that I mind other diners being in the same restaurant as me when I eat, I’d just rather not be forced to hear about Aunt Mildred’s lastest bunion operation from the next table while I do so. However, the claustrophobia was eased by the charming company of my date and the sterling service of the staff who didn’t try to rush us at all despite the crush of numbers. And some champagne. And a bottle of Reisling.

Despite the ardour dampening set-up of what should essentially be a beautiful room, the food itself was relatively sassy; at least as sexy as is appropriate at lunch time; kind of Helen Mirren sexy – a professional surface sexiness which, when pushed, would probably rather curl up with a cup of Ovaltine than get the whips out.

He’s been going through a lot recently but I admire Ramsay for what he has achieved and the solid consistency of the dishes that spring from his restaurant’s kitchens. With Mark Sargeant at the helm here* this experience was no different. We sampled both the reasonably priced set-lunch (£30 for 3 courses) and the well constructed a la carte (£70). A small bowl of crab, coriander and crayfish linguine as starter for my gorgeous date was a delicate balance of these robust ingredients – the linguine in particular had that lovely fresh pasta ‘bite’. Fricassée of rabbit and Berkshire crayfish with wild garlic pappardelle totally helped justify my recent cravings for all things lapin; the meat slightly darker than I had experienced before, but full of lovely subtle gaminess.

Our mains highlighted the bridge in refinement between the set menu and the a la carte. Roasted sea trout with a smoked shellfish cassoulet from the set was a hearty dish, bringing a French-country feel, served, as it was, in a single casserole dish – slightly incongrous given the setting. Whist this dish was well seasoned and tasty, when served alongside the a la carte main of roasted John Dory and tiger prawns, beetroot fondant, wild mushroom persillade and thyme velouté you could see (and taste) the difference between a well-priced set dish and a cooking from a Michelin Star kitchen. The combination of the very savoury thyme and the sweet beetroot fondant worked well but not to the extreme of over-powering an excellently cooked piece of fish. Dessert was, dessert.

None of the dishes were spectacular, yet all of them were good, and sexy way in a mild way. Helen Mirren food. However, it would have had to be Jessica Alba food to pull past the problems with the set-up of the room.

What we spent: £206.99

*Our visit was on 9th May; Mark Sargeant has since left Claridge’s, leaving head chef Steve Allen to step into his shoes. Tip: several (of the numerous) tables around us indicated that they were there on a special occasion and got a kitchen tour as a result.