A hotel dining room seemed the obvious choice for eating out in the lull between Christmas and New Year - and what hotel is more obvious than The Ritz?

Its façade inspired by the rue de Rivoli in Paris, its dining room often referred to as the most beautiful in the land, its assured place in the canons of Irving Berlin and Scott Fitzgerald, surely the restaurant should be reviewed more often than reference to the net shows it is.

Michael Winner was lauding the place not long ago, but scrutiny of his oeuvre revealed that it was a description of taking tea in the Palm Court.

When we arrived at The Ritz for dinner on the Tuesday after Christmas, afternoon tea (last serving 7.30pm) was still in full swing.

Whoever it is who wants to eat scones, cream and jam and iced fancies at that time of night might have argued that the £37 minimum charge (now raised to £38) was worth it for surroundings that encapsulated ding-dong-merrily on high in a monumental Christmas tree garlanded in red and gold reaching up through the central stairwell and generally beautiful decorations.

But, of course, you could also have walked the length of the lobby and back for nought.

Yesterday was the Feast of Epiphany so the decorations will now be gone. Emphasis falls on the sort of feast offered by the kitchen led by executive chef John Williams, who joined The Ritz in 2004 after nine years at Claridge's.

The dining room, a 1906 interpretation of Louis XVI style that is wholly successful in terms of rococo glamour and feminine wiles, was almost full on the night we visited, with an agreeable mix of ages and types.

Near us were a pretty young couple looking slightly hunted. It occurred to me that he might later be intending to propose to her.

A larger gathering of about six colleagues attracted the attentions of a violinist who stood by their side playing Cliff Richard's immortal Congratulations but it was impossible to tell from their reactions quite why. A man with only his large stomach for company dined on his own.

A grand hotel should offer a very particular kind of gastronomy. It could well be what The Ritz menu alludes to as its "palace-style cooking".

It must honour the special occasion, reward the financially reckless, soothe the resident, gratify the regular.

It needs to have a different quality to just haute cuisine and achieve the seemingly impossible combination of timelessness and thrill. Since chef Michel Bourdin left The Connaught, no London hotel has delivered it.

When the waiter at The Ritz announced the arrival of our "amuse-bouche compliments of the chef" and it turned out to be cappuccino of mushroom soup, I said to Reg, this is not timeless, it's almost exactly 12 years ago.

A palate-coating texture that perhaps owed something to lecithin didn't help matters.

Like nearly every other restaurant these days, The Ritz extols its devotion to seasonality and best of British. The table d'hôte is titled Today's Seasonal Menu.

Unfortunately, by the end of December, seasonal becomes less appealing - roast chicken breast? Too much like turkey. Loin of venison? Been there done that - so, despite the putative "saving" of three courses for £45, we ate à la carte.

After long deliberation I chose to start with tortellini of langoustine with cauliflower purée "Tout Paris", only to be told that it was unavailable.

It would have been useful to have heard that earlier - this is the only criticism of the service, which was otherwise smart, willing and friendly.

Warm native lobster with carrot purée and spiced coconut broth was so overpowered by the perfume of vanilla as to have no appeal whatsoever, which made its £28 cost even more excruciating. It was served tepid verging on cold, which emphasised the dessert-like flavour.

Smoked potato and egg yolk bacon ravioli with Alsace bacon and Jerusalem artichoke, also pallid and tepid, was misconceived on about four different levels and not a pleasure.

Cannon and Glazed Rib of Lamb (not, as you might be thinking, two of the diners) served with curried sweetbread and aubergine pain perdu fielded in addition a smear of unpleasant avocado and featured heavily salted meat.

I never did get to the bottom of what is aubergine pain perdu beyond a pointless conceit.

Tagliatelle with mushrooms and Perigord truffle was chosen partly to see how a dish of pasta with black truffles could be worth £30 and also because the cheap cut of pork belly being sold at £35 was untenable even if it did have a kromesky (their spelling) with it.

Briefly, the pasta assembly needed ethereal hand-made stuff - not the tough, durable ribbons offered - plus white Alba truffle to get even near worth the price.

It was listed with a V for vegetarian but I wondered whether the shavings of Parmesan were in fact vegetarian.

Grand Hotel style should incorporate tableside cooking, the whoosh of the spirit lamp and the glide of the trolley, the waiter who conducts like von Karajan.

There ought to be exciting simplicity, not primped and tortuous accoutrements surrounding a lump of protein.

It will be interesting to see what Gordon Ramsay Holdings do at The Savoy when at last it re-opens this year - if indeed it does. Bring back dancing in The River Room, say I.