You are where you eat

If its unparalleled wine list, opulent dining-room, attentive staff and top-notch food make Petrus a 'poseur's restaurant', where does that leave Terry Durack?

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When Petrus was described as "a poseur's restaurant" by the managing director of AA, Roger Wood, poseurs and their female equivalents poseuses were delighted. At last, a place to call their own.

Those not delighted included the AA Restaurant Guide's editor, Simon Wright, who, on the advice of his inspectors, had recommended the restaurant be awarded the full five rosettes in the next guide. Wood recommended against it. Wright resigned.

So, is it or isn't it? And how do you tell if you're a poseur? Nobody has said anything (thank you), but I do wear Calvin Klein underwear, own a Dualit toaster, and specify the vodka for my vodka-and-tonic. It must be a close call. I have to go to Petrus, and find out once and for all.

I must say there isn't a poseur in sight as I walk into the long, richly furnished room, with its gold-block wallpaper, abundant carpet, raspberry velvet seats and be-skirted tables. There are couples of a certain age, discreet groups related only by business, and even a nice-looking man with his mother. The high ceiling, slightly hushed atmosphere and opulent, overly ripe still life oils by Paul Howard Karslake give Petrus the air of a temple of gastronomy. One expects solemn chanting to begin, with waiter-novitiates falling to their knees and chef Marcus Wareing to appear in a beam of heavenly light. But no, a trolley of Champagne arrives instead, gliding to the table past its counterparts for cognacs and cheeses.

Wareing is co-owner of Petrus with Gordon Ramsay, with whom he has worked for many years. Slight, quietly spoken and politely precise in his manner, Wareing could not be more different to the robust, tempestuous Ramsay. Yet there are similarities of approach and execution in the French-driven menu, and they speak the same idiomatic culinary French, with much bandying about of tranches of foie gras, fillets of turbot, pig's trotters, French pigeons and pork bellies.

A pretty Limoges Bernadaud platter of appetisers arrives, similar in style to that of Gordon Ramsay at Claridge's, but no less effective for it. In fact, better. Chicken liver pâté is mousselike and rich, and an aubergine purée dusted with powdered truffle sparkles on the tongue. These are followed by a sweet and complex lobster consommé that leaves enough dregs of minced truffle to read your fortune.

It's the sort of food that requires a lot of work in the kitchen in order to look effortless at the table. With the kitchen located downstairs, it also requires some intelligence and planning to design dishes that are still at their best by the time they reach the diner. Both starters – red mullet and pig's trotter – are finished at the table with accompanying soups, to that end.

The fish perches crisp-skinned on a scattering of asparagus, summer truffle, baby fennel and little throat lozenges of soft semolina gnocchi, all gently submerged in a rising flood of bouillabaisse. It is the Mediterranean refined and tamed.

In the same manner, a divinely balanced onion broth is poured around a cylinder of unattractively dark-glazed confit of pig's trotter filled with pork and ham, and a base of braised onions. Ill-advisedly in this case, I think. It's a good broth, but it would be better on the side, not drowning the dish.

The fixed-price menu generously lists a roast fillet of Scottish beef for two, without a supplement. It's a fun thing to share, from the special Laguiole knives and their silver rests, to the arrival of the guéridon trolley.

Even choosing wine is an event. The list is fabulous, as in full of fabled wines of the sort favoured by investment bankers – indeed, five of them hit the news last year by running up a £44,000 bill here for a single meal. As at Claridge's, however, the list is ungenerous to those who are not investment bankers.

The lumpen knob of beef is beautifully presented with showpiece thyme and garlic at the table, and has been precisely cooked to medium-rare, and well-rested. It is then cut into six thick slabs and served with dark, braised choucroute, some melting foie gras, a gathering of wild mushrooms and baby artichokes. A Madeira truffle sauce is not the big sticky reduction I expected, but something lighter and yet still intense. It's all very warm, woody and hunter-gatherer, and could only have been improved with a bit more crust on the beef for textural contrast, and an investment banker's bonus to go towards a 1982 Petrus.

Ah well, my modest Alana Pinot Noir 1999 from New Zealand (£36) manages to deliver enough fruit and finish to not disgrace itself. It also works a treat with the superbly kept French cheeses, served with knowledge and care.

A pre-dessert berry compote, lemon cream and mint granita is pretty and light, but the post pre-dessert (OK, the dessert), a millefeuille confection of orange parfait, bitter chocolate and crisp honeycomb is startlingly good.

Wood also described the staff as discourteous, yet they have been attentive, humorous and generous in their knowledge. He said the ambience was lacking, but the room feels clubby, moody, rich and luxurious. He recommended against awarding Petrus five rosettes, yet when the AA Restaurant Guide 2003 is published next month, the restaurant will have five rosettes. Why the discrepancies? You'd have to ask the nearest poseur. I wouldn't know. *