London Diary: The king’s banquet

Ever wanted to dine like a king? For one night only, you could do so at £275 per head —wine not included, of course.

Pavyllon restaurant at the Four Seasons in Park Lane recreated the meal that King Charles enjoyed at the Palace of Versailles during his state visit to France last month. It consisted of three courses executed by different Michelin star chefs, all of whom travelled to London for the grand restaging.

Pavyllon is quietly luxurious and pristine. The soft blue chairs and pale carpets create an old-fashioned Mediterranean atmosphere. Not quite Versailles, but I’m ready.

The smoked eel amuse-bouche arrives. Vibrant slashes of green on black crackers. In scenarios like this, expectations often influence reactions. We ‘mmm’ before we’ve quite tasted the nibbles. It’s all very exciting.

The first course consists of shredded blue lobster and brown crab meat flavoured with almond and mint. It’s tasty, of course it is, but it’s also goopy and somehow reminiscent of what you’d feed a sick —i f refined—child. We’re all still ‘mmming.’

The main is Ledoyen bresse poultry, almost vulgar in its plumpness and perfectly cooked with truffles nestled under the skin. Still, a chicken breast. We’re perhaps a little deflated now. Someone requests more bread and butter.

At this juncture, I usually exalt in the existence of a ‘separate dessert stomach,’ but I’ve got plenty of room this time. Is it more civilised this way? After all, would the King stuff himself? I can’t imagine the ever-chic Brigitte Macron with her buttons straining against her belly.

Apparently, she requested the dessert herself. Raspberries and sorbet on a macron. It’s beautiful, if familiar from pastry shop windows. It’s also completely tasteless. The shock makes us laugh. Even the raspberries aren’t sweet. We order vanilla ice cream to douse everything with.

Even so, such a production and price tag make it hard to articulate our feelings until later. But over the next few days, we sheepishly confess how little we enjoyed it. How strangely uninspired we found the dishes.

I’ve been thinking about why. Who was to blame?

Like us, did the King have to stomach the food? The banquet may not have made me feel like royalty, but it did make me understand King Charles better. Indeed, the whole thing seemed representative of Britain’s circumscribed, modern monarchy. Gone are the days of kings beheading hapless cooks in disappointment. It must be exhausting, eating for England, when negative reactions can endanger diplomatic missions.

But given his fabled pickiness about food, King Charles more likely directed the menu himself. This, again, is revelatory. As he ages, do childhood flavours attract him as they attract others? After all, food is a portal for nostalgia.

Or perhaps I just lack the refined palate necessary to have enjoyed the meal.

Whatever the reason, such glimpses into that elusive Windsor psyche are expensive. £275 to be exact.

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