Which is when we could take in the other personality which greets you as you enter: the room, all pearl, cream-white, oyster shell and grey sea-washed rock and white linen.

The room is relatively speaking, small.

10 to 12 tables.

We sat at a table for two. A group of six sat at the window and all the tables were filled, except for one a short distance away on our left.

We looked at each other nervously.

And then the show began.

The curtain-raising was performed by Jean-Marie, the sommelier who arrived to deposit the wine “list”.

He lugged it out in a wheelbarrow, wrestled it up to chest-height and plonked it down on our table, whereupon said table leaned alarmingly to one side.

I exaggerate, but not much.

We opened it with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, my wallet almost immediately suffered indigestion despite me trying not to look at the prices.

We struck off the Australian section straight away working under the belief that we could drink those at home.

That is, if we got back with any money.

We began with a glass of champagne. Don’t ask me which one. I was still trying to give mouth-to-mouth to my wallet.

But it was crisp and had bubbles and we were at Restaurant Gordon Ramsay surrounded by other food loving patrons who had made the pilgrimage.

Some, of course, were regulars. And we envied their easy grace and relaxed manner as they joked amongst themselves as if they were at mum’s for Sunday lunch.

Posers.

One glass of champagne followed the first while we attempted to decipher the wine bible.

At last we chose an Italian white, purely because it was the one grape we recognised: vermentino, and only then because we’d spent the last three weeks traipsing through Tuscany.

That out of the way, we turned our attention to the menu.

I’d already decided to have the degustation menu. The restaurant calls it their “prestige” menu.

Seven dishes plus an extra eight pounds each for the cheese board.

Well, why not?

If you are going to spend months on the phone attempting to get a reservation and then travel half-way around the world, give your wallet heart failure why quibble at eight pounds?

To Page 17

Despite deciding on the menu there were still decisions to be made.

Cannon of Cornish lamb with confit shoulder, ratatouille and thyme jus or the roasted pigeon from Bresse with grilled polenta, smoked pork belly and date sauce.

It’s why you should never dine alone.

As did the gentleman to our left who arrived as we debated who would order the lamb and who would have the pigeon.

I wanted both.

“Hello Mr Marsh it’s been a while since we’ve seen you,” the bubbly lady said as she walked the restaurants last lunch patron to his seat.

“And how’s your niece. Did she get that new job?”

I was envious that this middle-aged man for two reasons, a) he was a regular, b) he could afford to be a regular.

It was a fleeting thought.

The wine and a waiter arrived to take our order.

It was quickly followed by an amuse bouche – a little extra not on the menu and presumably, not that my wallet believed it, free of charge.

And what a start.

Placed before us, out great excursion into the world of fine dining had begun.

The curtain had been raised, and the lights had gone up.

It was raw scallops embraced by a small white plate which highlighted the pearl-colored creature, diced finely and perfectly.

There was no slooshing of sauce. Untainted by any flavouring but the sea and the precision and care of the artists in the kitchen.

It made me ask a simple question: why cook them, ever?

The flesh was buttery and al dente and re-inforced our belief that discovering the flavor of something untried before can be an almost divine revelation.

Of course it can go the other way as we discovered a few days later when we tried pea soup at a two Michelin-starred restaurant that tasted of gunpowder and cigarettes.

But that’s another story.

Jean-Marie returned. I had watched as he circled the room. He reminded me of an undertaker, a character straight from a Dicken’s novel.

He was tall – at least 6ft6inches – dressed in a black coat he was ever so-slightly stooped. His hand were clasped in font, ready to pounce, perhaps to whisk away an empty bottle of red, or an arrant crumb from the table or perhaps, to slap your hand if you used the wrong eating utensil. It had not been a good image and said more about my own nerves.

It’s probably why, when Jean-Marie, upon seeing our confusion at the wine list, had inquired if we’d prefer him to recommend some wines by the course, we refused.

The bank account, I reasoned, just couldn’t survive.

However after agreeing that we were both disappointed with our choice of white, and with the maligned drop having done part of its job, we once more sought assistance.

Jean-Marie grew more animated as we talked about what we liked looking and more like an excited schoolboy then an undertaker.

“I promise it won’t be too expensive,” he said.

And it wasn’t. It was a decision which was to produce one of the meals highlights and warms my soul whenever I think about it.

Act II: A broccoli soup which was verdant almost fluorescent green, and I think chosen for that very reason.

The caviar and a single chive just-broken-the-earth-bud was the most perfect finish.

Act III: Pressed foie gras with sauternes and camomile jelly.

I was extremely excited.

Foie gras does that to you. Some are excited because they believe fatted duck livers are the closest thing to heaven, while others find the whole process of force feeding corn to ducks morally reprehensible.

I was neither.

I was, like Eve, tempted and seduced by the mystique surrounding it.

I’d only had foie gras once before, a thin sliver, a wafting over the top really so the chef could say foie gras was on the menu.

This was the real deal.

The foie gras (prounounced so I am told as fwa gra) came with toasted brioche, rich and egg-yolk yellow and truffle-infused. It was rich but not so much that you could feel your liver expanding to a grinding sluggish gall-bladder bursting halt.

It was on top of a sauterne and camomile jelly and ribbons of what I took to be a deep-red Parma-like ham.

The jelly was not overpowering and gave the liver a wonderful balance.

ACT IV: Ravioli of lobster, langoustine (like prawns with Edward scissorhand hands) and salmon with a lemongrass and chervil veloute.

The bisque-style reduction of this dish was one of the highlights of the meal.

Superb. And even that doesn’t do it justice.

We savoured every mouthful unwilling to interrupt our pleasure even when the wait staff came up to see if we wanted something else to drink.

Which is when we discovered how keen to please they are at Gordon Ramsay. They are proud of the restaurant and more than happy to speak about each dish and how it’s prepared.

It opened a flood-gate of questions. Each question was answered. No hint of needing to rush off. Their passion and pride obvious.

Act V: Fillet of turbot with braised baby gem lettuce, leeks and cep sauce.

I would not have ordered this if I’d chosen from the menu.

We were preparing to visit Rick Stein’s restaurant in Padstow so I was leaving the fish to him.

Thankfully I had no choice.

This was close to my favourite course.

The turbot was “meaty”, tender and delicious.

Act V1: The turbot was only outdone by the pigeon and baby vegetables.

Elegant, rich and soothing. I much preferred it to the lamb which, so we were told, was a firm restaurant favourite.

In between courses two waiters would arrive carrying a tray of breads.

They ranged from a honey-crusted ciabiatta which was dense and chewy to a potato bread which had a hint of rosemary, thyme and black pepper which was incredibly addictive.

Or maybe it was the rich dobs of butter? It was another sign how getting the “little things” right can make a world of difference.

Act VII: Desserts and cheese course.

The cheeses were well chosen ranging from soft blues to hard cheddars from England, France and Italy.

It’s what you’d expect from any fine restaurant.

Dessert: There was a pre-dessert course. Mango and passionfruit soup with lychee and coconut. It was perfectly fine and enjoyable but, coming after what had come before,, slightly disappointing. But purely, we think, because of our own expectations

The same could be said for the pineapple and chilli soup with fromage frais. It was a more interesting dish with contrasting flavours – pineapple and lemon which hides the surprise and crunch of starburst candy and a hint of chilli. At your next dinner party it would be a standout dish. At a three-Michelin starred restaurant? I must hasten to add that I have a preference for entrees and mains and that my idea of the perfect desert is a banana split so I’m probably not the best person to comment.

By this stage our eating partners had dwindled to us, and our other late arrival.

It was four o’clock and Jean-Marie proposed that we move to a booth next to the bar.

“It’s perfectly fine. They always do that so that they can begin to set the room for dinner service,” our table neighbor informed us.

We moved in where we served coffees and the final course: white and dark chocolate balls served on silver stems “growing” from a small witch’s cauldron.

Clouds of “fog” billowed over the sides of the bowl from what we gathered was dry ice underneath. It was the final show-stopping course.

The end had come.

The lights go up: For four hours of gastronomic heaven we had immersed ourselves in a world created by Gordon Ramsay.

He was not in the kitchen.

There were no “f-words” to be heard. This show was run by Clare Smyth who had also trained under another English food titan Heston Blumenthal.

And for us, sommelier Jean-Marie and the rest of the wait staff at Restaurant Gordon Ramsay.

It’s hackneyed but true. For four hours we had been treated like royalty.

It was our first and most likely our last visit, but we were treated much like our dining room partner who lived in Suffolk. He goes to the restaurant around six times a year.

“I love it. I come down for lunch. I go home and save, and then come back,” he said.

“They’re wonderful aren’t they?”

It’s noteworthy I think that he mentioned the staff, and not the food.

We can understand his enthusiasm and yes they were wonderful. But so was the food.

That was re-inforced as our man from Suffolk departed and Jean-Marie walked over with the list of wines he had chosen for us.

After much thanking and hand-shaking he said: “Would you like to visit the kitchen?”

Indeed, Jean-Marie, we would.

As long as we weren’t going to be sworn at.

He smiled and led the way.

The kitchen was not a dark cavernous place where culinary magic was performed.

It was airy and light, and small. Again we were probably expecting more.

Jean-Marie explained the prepping areas and who did what.

We were met with polite and easy smiles and a nod here or two.

It’s a glaring contrast to the nervous, shell-shocked and belittled chefs we see on our TV screens as they are castigated by a barrage of four-letters words from the mouth of one of the world’s most famous chefs.

It posed another question: when it comes to Ramsay the man where does reality end and the image take over?

Were we disappointed Ramsay wasn’t there?

Not at all. Initially, yes, of course, but not after we had shared a dining experience we won’t ever forget.

And it is Ramsay who must be congratulated for that.

We also know that most food lovers around the world would prefer if he stopped being a celebrity and got back in to the kitchen and do what he truly does best: cook.

The Tracy Grimshaws of the world would probably agree.

However that doesn’t change a simple truth: If you love food and you happened to be in London, start saving now, and be prepared to spend some time on the phone to get a reservation at a restaurant that is a sublime dining out experience – no matter what the critics might say.

Gordon Ramsay, the man, may deserve an f-word or two, but when it comes to his namesake restaurant than f-for-fabulous says all that has to be said.

We were farewelled by Jean-Marie at the door and welcomed into the real world of grey brick, and mutton-red bricks and taxi fumes.

We couldn’t help but feel like Harry Potter dumped back on to Station 13-and-a-half and dreaming, of Hogwarts and all…