On Saturday afternoon, I was in the car listening to the radio and trying to explain to Barney, my 15-year-old, that riding the winner in the Derby required far more than luck - that it wasn't merely a case of any old jockey sitting atop a very good horse.

The following day, we went to the winning rider Frankie Dettori's "family" restaurant in Putney. It's one of four owned by Dettori and Marco Pierre White - the others are at Knightsbridge, Chiswick and Selfridges. Judging by this experience, the suspicion is that Frankie's is the culinary equivalent of exactly what Barney is talking about.

How did it happen? Did Frankie say to Marco: "I'm a famous Italian sportsman, your mother was Italian (even though she died when you were six and you grew up in West Yorkshire) and your name sounds Italian, let's go into business together." Or did Marco say to Frankie: "You're a genius, I'm a genius, let's start a restaurant chain - it cannot fail."

To be fair, Frankie's isn't in the best spot in Putney. It's not on the High Street and it's not in the new development by the river. But with two stellar personalities at the helm, location shouldn't be such a factor - Frankie and Marco ought to be a big enough draw.

When we arrived, there was one other table taken. A group of four came a bit later, then another family. And that was it - from 12.30 until 2pm on a Sunday, only four tables were taken. The bar remained resolutely empty. That said, the maître d' managed to convey an impression of weariness (presumably he was tired bored rather than tired exhausted). The decor, of over-sized gold framed mirrors and giant glitter balls, lent the place the air of a lap-dancing club that also does lunches. As for Frankie and Marco and a personal touch from them, there was nothing (and no reference to his Derby win, no signed glamorous pictures of him or his famous mates, not a sniff).

The wine list spoke volumes. Instead of classifying the wine according to type, they're listed by price - so I ordered a "£25 white" Gavi di Gavi. The food was ordinary. Focaccia, which we had to ask for, came on a plate with a paper doily. Oil was provided in a bottle but there was nowhere to pour it so dipping was out of the question.

The children had an Americano pizza and gnocchi Genovese. We had Caesar salad and Parma ham with figs. The figs were dreary, not fat, juicy and ripe. Tuna steak was so-so. My wife's spaghetti Sorrentina was too heavy on the sauce and too light on the basil. Just as there's none of the Frankie razzmatazz on display so are there precious few Marco signatures in the dishes - Harvey's and Mirabelle seem very far away.

Towards the end, a man in a suit came and stood by us. I thought, at last, this is the real maître d' and he's come to ask how we are (the other one never did). In fact, he was the magician. Even he seemed subdued. There were so few of us he said glumly that he didn't mind showing us the secret of one of his tricks.

There was, though, one final trick. The bill: £96.13, for two adults and two children. When we got home I turned on the TV. There was Frankie winning the French Derby after his Epsom triumph on Saturday. He won, we lost.