Restaurant Hélÿne Darroze, Paris

A missing chef and a mixed-up kitchen. Tracey MacLeod is less than dazzled by the restaurant of rising Parisian star Hélÿne Darroze

It's a mark of how seriously the French take their guidebooks that when the famous chef Bernard Loiseau killed himself in February, his suicide was widely attributed to a two-point drop in his GaultMillau rating.

Loiseau's death overshadowed another, smaller guidebook controversy at the time, concerning the promotion from one to two Michelin stars of Restaurant Hélène Darroze in Paris. Darroze, who comes from a hotel-owning family in the south-west and trained with Alain Ducasse, is in her early thirties and a relatively new arrival on the Paris scene. She's also something of a media darling, and traditionalists complained that her elevation owed more to marketing than merit. According to the food critic of Le Figaro, "one star was already a lot and two stars is quietly surreal".

Still, as our own Jamie Oliver has proved, a high media profile doesn't automatically mean you can't run a great restaurant. I liked the sound of Mme Darroze, and her "delicious and feminine cooking of the south-west" (as GaultMillau had it). So we planned a recent Parisian weekend around Saturday lunch in her controversially promoted restaurant, a short stroll from Boulevard St-Germain.

First mistake. Hélène Darroze doesn't cook at lunchtimes, it turns out. (How else would she be able to fit in all those photo-shoots?) Still, a two-starred kitchen should run like a well-oiled machine, and we were reassured by the patrician plush of the first-floor dining room, handsomely decorated in shades of plum and burgundy, with a recurring glass disc motif on the walls reminiscent of auntie's teapot stand collection.

If there's a theme to the menu, it's the reinvention of rib-sticking south-western dishes, and the imaginative use of ingredients from the region, particularly foie gras. Several of Darroze's signature dishes appear on the fixed-price lunch menu, which looked reasonable value at 58 euros, or about £40, for three courses. Whether the à la carte menu offered equal value for money I was unable to judge, as ladies are given a copy without prices. So much for my feminist pilgrimage.

After the obligatory amuse-bouches, we were presented with our starters from the prix-fixé menu – or rather, I was presented with Harry's starter and vice versa. Oh well, these things happen, even in the best-run establishments, and the food was good enough to compensate. Ravioli filled with Basque ham and piperade, south-western France's answer to ratatouille, delivered both delicacy and knock-out flavours, while confit foie gras was dusted in spices and partnered with caramelised citrus fruits and (rather burnt) toasted pain Poilâne.

When our waiter mixed up our main courses, I started to lose faith in the well-oiled-machine theory. Harry had ordered poulet de Landes, curious to see whether local girl Darroze could make something special of it (or at least more special than I do with the ones we get from Sainsbury's) But the hefty leg, its flesh spiked with rosemary and preserved lemon, wasn't the familiar yellow colour. In fact it was distinctly pink. "It's quite lightly cooked," Harry ventured. So lightly, in fact, that there was blood at the bone. After unsuccessfully trying to convince himself that it was some kind of beetroot reduction, Harry called our waiter over, and the chicken tartare was whisked away with an untranscribably Gallic snort of disgust. Muffled shouting was heard from the kitchen.

For the next 15 minutes or so, we waited for the return of the chicken. My scallops were perfect, grilled on the plancha, and served with a mango, cucumber and coriander risotto and a cappuccino foam of vanilla-scented sauce. But I was eating them on my own. It shouldn't happen in a Little Chef, never mind in the restaurant of a big, famous chef.

A mild hysteria gripped us when, true to form, we were given each other's desserts. Perhaps we were being filmed for Camera Candide, or the French equivalent of Jamie's Kitchen? My chocolate fondant was good, but it would have had to have been served off George Clooney's bottom to make up for the incompetence of what had gone before. And even then, they'd probably have got the order mixed up: "Pour Monsieur, les fesses de Clooney, et pour Madame, La Binoche au chocolat."

When our bill was presented (to Harry, naturally), we noticed we hadn't been charged for our bottle of wine, and assumed it was a goodwill gesture, because of all the cock-ups. But no, it turned out to be another cock-up. With one of his trademark snorts, our waiter took it away and returned with a new one for the full amount – around £150. That sum doesn't include a tip, because we didn't leave one. And to cap it all, when we left, they tried to give me Harry's coat. Quietly surreal, indeed. E

Restaurant Hélène Darroze, 4 Rue D'Assas, 6th, Paris (00 33 0 1 42 22 00 11)