Dinner By Heston Blumenthal
My two experiences of ‘Dinner By Heston Blumenthal’ couldn’t be more different. When it opened, there was the man himself, charismatic bonce twinkling, schmoozing like the consummate professional he is. The menu, with its reinvention of historic British cooking, seemed to be paradoxically new and there was an air of palpable excitement about the place – is that Lily Allen? Sir Paul McCartney? Look at the size of Jeremy Clarkson’s head! Nobody with a profile came away unhugged by Heston. Little wonder most of the critical world came away gibbering in some kind of rapture.
Heston Blumenthal’s meat fruit, as served at Dinner. Photograph: Eddie Judd
But on this visit, the place appears to have settled into its primary role: that of a good hotel restaurant populated by suits and dressed-to-the-nines out-of-towners.

Taffety tart as served at Dinner by Heston Blumenthal.
It’s undeniably beautiful, in a sleek, expensive way, with its quirky wall lamps based on jelly moulds; there’s a vast-windowed open kitchen groaning with hi-tech kit that seems to jut right into the dining space. Here Blumenthal’s first lieutenant Ashley Palmer-Watts’s brigade – no, of course Heston’s not cooking – can be seen intently beavering away, although much of the techie stuff is done in a basement kitchen far below.
There’s an imposing, steampunky rotisserie designed by Swiss watchmaker Ebel, its only purpose appearing to be to turn the pineapple for the heavily sold tipsy cake into, well, hot pineapple.
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