The Montagu

Chef's tables aren't for everyone. Some of us like having the provenance, style, concept—and maybe even the suggested order of consumption—of every dish explained to them before they eat it, and some don't. Dining out is as much about conversation, relaxation, ambience as it is about the food. In any case, knowledge isn't everything. The last thing you want during an important business lunch is Gordon Ramsay bursting in every five minutes to maintain momentum: "come on, come on... spoon, mouth—done. Let's get this f*cking show on the road, yes?"

Sitting at the top table is therefore only an occasional pleasure—but it's still a pleasure worth investigating. After all, what's the point of celebrating all these celebrity chefs if we can't witness their histrionic tantrums, ask them stupid questions about basting, or taste their pan-fried calves' liver fresh from the pan, rather than fresh from having sat under the lights for 10 minutes waiting for service?

The food doesn't do much hanging around at the Montagu, one of two slick restaurants operating at the Hyatt-owned Churchill hotel, in Portman Square—the other being the fantastic Locanda Locatelli. The chef's table at the Montagu is actually a kind of chef's counter—along which a line of front-row bar stools offer a candid view of the serenely calm kitchen staff as they chop, fillet, and grill their way through what is, all in all, a pretty impressive five-course lunch. The emphasis is on multi-dish grazing—giving the chefs a chance to show off their flexibility and diners a chance to show off their gluttony. I did rather well.

First up was an "assiette" of assorted starters ("plate" is so last decade). A chorizo and squid salad was particularly good, the squid managing to retain an element of bite without descending into inedible elasticity—always a challenge. Spinach soup could only have been better if there'd been lots more of it—a whole vat, for example. A Parma ham and roast red pepper terrine was less of a success. Chilling dishes often unintentionally jumbles the flavours: here the peppers melded with the ham to produce red-peppery ham—a bit of a mess. "Everything OK?" asks mild-mannered executive chef Ben Purton. "Great," we reply in unison. What a bunch of wimps.

Next up is a daintily thin slice of salmon, dotted with roe and dressed, a tad unnecessarily, with a shallot vinaigrette. The salmon is "flash-grilled", for about 30 seconds, which for any slender cut is absolutely the way forward, enabling the fish to retain maximum flavour. It was delicious. Norfolk veal is the main event, and deservedly so, arriving thankfully pretty soon after an apricot sorbet, which although designed to cleanse the palate, only succeeded in soiling it. Apricot tends to do that.

The veal is followed by one of the best selection of deserts I've tasted in a long time—five in a row, all on one assiette (I'm getting the hang of this) the highlight being an exquisite sticky toffee pudding, its syrupy sweetness combined with a wonderfully light vanilla ice cream of the highest order. Throughout, Purton is a picture of tranquillity, gliding through the different dishes with consummate ease. Tantrums are conspicuous by their absence. "There's another kitchen through that door," he says. "If I want to shout, I do it in there."