Luca

Truffles are a contentious luxury. While not as ethically dubious as foie gras or caviar, they are afflicted by the same associations with pretension and expense. The distinctive flavour is divisive too, its perception not enhanced by ‘truffle-flavoured’ products that rely on a formaldehyde-derived chemical for an obnoxious imitation of the real taste.

When we visit Luca, recent winner of its first Michelin star, the menu features a cacio e pepe with black truffle. It’s simple and spectacularly expensive but you won’t care. You won’t care about anything while eating it. An astonishing version of the classic sauce coats glorious fresh tagliolini and carries the unmistakable depth and umami of the world’s most cherished and resented tuber. A few decadent mouthfuls of this dish are the basis on which truffle should be judged and represent a shortcut to your definitive answer on the subject.

If resolving this burning issue alone merits a visit, a venue as elegant as the pasta awaits. Luca may feature the most beautiful interior of any restaurant in London. Love letters should be addressed to Alexander Waterworth, the design studio responsible for the restrained colour palette, parquet flooring, wood panelling, art deco lamps, white marble and burnished brass. Walking through the bar to reach the dining room is like exploring an Agatha Christie filmset.

And the lighting: christ, the lighting. It’s gentle and diffused overhead, it casts seductive shadows against walls, it glows like embers in the peripheries. This is lighting design of a kind only expected from Roger Deakins or the room of an extremely exclusive private hospital in which ultrasounds are conducted.

The cocktails are excellent. A liqueur called Chinotto Nero and lapsang tea contribute to a complex, faintly smoky Manhattan. An initial, overly enthusiastic pull reveals how generous barkeep is with the rye. Reality swims at its edges momentarily as I gaze across the table at a similarly potent Martini.

Our increasingly inundated livers need bailing out and chewy sourdough arrives unbidden. It’s a lovely, missed opportunity. Other types of bread exist but for how long must humanity toil in order to eat them in a restaurant? A little teal cruet with a spout we mistake for a handle is also delivered. It’s duly upended so that the lid falls off and the entire contents are dumped, miraculously directly, into a dipping bowl. Emerald green extra virgin olive oil teeters threateningly at the bowl’s edge; we don’t need embarrassment as an incentive to mop it all up.

Scallops perched on Jerusalem artichoke puree and topped with nduja are one of four starters. It seems improbable that a person could order any of the others, given these constituents. This is the way to cook scallops and these are the things with which to serve them. A glass of riesling from the most northern part of Italy has minerality and spice, making it the perfect partner.

The wine list runs to around 450 bottles and includes many of Italy’s most famous names. There’s Flaccianello, Tignanello, Ornellaia; there are 11 vintages of Sassicaia. Without justification - a birthday that ends with a zero, Halle Berry, weeks to live – it can prove a sensible tactic to aim for a less prestigious grape variety, name or region. With luck, the wine will constitute better value and cost less. We pick Titolo, a red wine made from aglianico in the southern province of Basilicata, on the reputation of the producer.

The cacio e pepe came after the scallops, so we’re sat in a silent, reverential stupor when venison arrives. Luca’s tagline of ‘British seasonal ingredients through an Italian lens’ is effectively an excuse for the kitchen to swing between the two cuisines as it pleases. The result is a dish of Aynhoe deer that feels more ‘meat and two unusual veg’ than ‘la dolce vita’. Pieces of fillet sit on a coffee and walnut crumb with roast pumpkin and quince but the highlight is the unadvertised accompaniment of a dinky venison sausage.

Every component is cooked perfectly and the quality of the meat is irreproachable. And yet, the dish feels strangely one-dimensional and unremarkable after the preceding courses. A side of creamed polenta with wild mushrooms and parmesan taken together with the deer sausage creates a flawless hedge-fund bangers ‘n’ mash. It’s a combination that overshadows the main course.

The maker of our wine, Elena Fucci, is celebrated for a modern, elegant style of what can be a rustic, heavy red. The reasons for this become clear when you try Titolo. Her approach combined with the hilly topography of the region mean this is not the huge, jammy wine you might expect from southern Italy. There’s an intriguing beeswax smell from the oak in the aroma but once the wine is in your chops, this character melts into the background. There’s a freshness, a balance, and a supple texture. The wine works beautifully with the food.

Sese, a dessert wine made by Tua Rita, is also glorious. It’s a great match for a pudding of apple tart, which, along with tiramisu, is slightly underwhelming. The point must be made and laboured: if one is to be whelmed about food at these prices, it must be over not under.

The total on our bill is a figure ordinarily written on a giant novelty cheque to be ceremoniously handed to the owner in front of a handful of photographers. There will be people here eating on expense accounts and others who look at bills with the sort of feeble interest most of us reserve for unusual cloud formations. For those who spend this much money on a meal once or twice a year, the experience needs to be one of uninterrupted delight. The consistently immaculate presentation and execution of the food at Luca explains the Michelin star, but some dishes are less exciting than they need to be.

Unless your work regularly commands ministerial day rates, visit Luca for cocktails in the bar. Try some snacks, be merry and ask to smell the truffles, but consider saving the rest of your money for dinner elsewhere.