The imaginative flair of his cookery seemed incongruous in the rickety old-style surroundings though, the location not quite right. One hoped that he wouldn't be left behind by the chef-led feeding frenzy that had started half a mile away.

One needn't have worried. In 2001, he moved the operation to a lane off Molesworth Street and really began to thrive in a classy modern room that was much more the thing for his style. It's a good show from when you walk into the reception area. A little intake of breath as the maitre'd opens the door and leads you through a roomful of people all pretending to ignore you. Dark wood, subtle lighting, starchy linen. Very modern flowers.

Lots of civil servants and party apparatchiks.

Nobody under thirty.

It's the kind of place where you really do very little apart from read from the menu and then chew for a while. The rest is taken care of. Plates appear and glasses are filled and chairs move in and out. Our wine was left in an ice bucket right square behind me where I couldn't see it. A nicely balanced Albarino by Pazo San Mauro that was all citrus and apple. "Is it still there?" I asked my companion about every 10 seconds, not quite settled yet. But then I realised that I could top up my glass anytime by just thinking about it. Blink and a guy appeared. This is what it's like to be very rich.

We were brought an amuse-bouche of a perfectly seared king scallop in a delicate smooth celery veloute, an indicator of the quality that was to follow. Langoustine risotto was described as coming with sorrel and sweet peas, which we wondered about.

No petals in the end though, just peas that were sweet in perfect, almost nutty rice cooked in a deep bisque-y stock with smoky langoustines hidden throughout. Carlingford oysters came three raw, three cooked in a light crisp dough, served with a sauce flavoured with chervil and apple jelly. The raw were as ozone-y and fresh as you could want, the cooked were barely there at all, the apple providing a light acidity to counter the silky richness of the oyster.

Passion fruit sorbet was tart and fruity and barely sweet, mellowed a touch by fromage blanc. Turbot came with braised oxtail, Savoy cabbage and broad beans. This device of a meaty fish being used in conjunction with a strongly flavoured meat is cropping up all over the place. The fish carries the cow, in a man-bites-dog style reversal and when it works, as it did here, you can't argue with the fun of it. Or the skill. The intense almost fruity flavour of the oxtail, the delicate flakiness of the turbot, the green crispness of the cabbage and beans. A wonderful combination.

Roast venison fillet was served medium-rare with a parsnip puree, a Dauphinoise-style stack of thinly sliced root vegetables and sauce poivrade, a kind of rusticated pepper sauce.

The meat was flavoursome and tender, complemented perfectly by the earthiness of the vegetables, the silkiness of the puree and the dark glowing heat of the sauce, based on a stock that had real murky depth.

An individual portion of pear tarte tatin was nearly caramelised pear on perfect puff pastry with butterscotch sauce and ice cream flavoured with Poire Williams, a strong pear liqueur. The ice-cream was low on sweetness, big on flavour and we loved the whole thing. So much so that we, subtly, I would say, cleaned the plate at the end with our fingers without any assistance being offered. Or needed. Roast baby pineapple with Grand Marnier syrup and Malibu ice-cream was too sweet though. The ice cream went some way to balancing it but not enough. Petits fours were artful and delicate.

None of this comes cheap. Four euro for a coffee? Six for a bottle of water? If you want to live large it's going to cost you.

But afterwards, thinking about the service, the comfort and, above all, the cooking, which remains at the highest level, you may judge that it's worth it. As we did.