Brasserie Zédel, London, restaurant review When it opened in the summer, I held back as an experiment, to discover whether the owners would, as expected, sharply hike the prices once the first tranche of admiring reviews was pocketed. They have, bless them, done no such thing. Amid myriad marbled pillars and gilded light fittings, sitting at velvet banquettes arrayed over parquet flooring, one's eye is grabbed by the two course prix fixe menu (cucumber soup followed by steak haché) at £8.75. That, to spell it out like the old Grandstand vidiprinter when a startling football score might have been mistaken for a typo, is EIGHT POUNDS AND SEVENTY-FIVE PENCE. How can this be? Such is the veneration for Corbin and King that their motives have induced speculation, with some rivals positing that this is a charitable mission intended to democratise the Parisian brasserie experience, by creating an homage to such temples as La Coupole for the neo-austerity diner. I doubt this. For one thing, it feels more Viennese than Parisian, thanks not least to the lack of Gallic impertinence from the waiting staff (our waiter being a dead sweet Hispanic chap). For another, making money is their trade. The only way to do that, from an all-the-usual-suspects brasserie menu (in French, but with subtitles available on request) on which several starters are less than £3, is to get "em in, get "em fed and get "em out as quickly, if courteously, as possible. A waitress reported that more than 1,000 covers were served the previous Saturday, which is quite an achievement even in a space the size of Gibraltar. Corbin and King's particular brilliance has always lain in the theatricality they provide, and an unmatched talent for making punters feel cosseted and important. In their garage of extinct car marques, the food has always taken a back seat, and never more than here. At these prices it may seem churlish to moan about the cooking, but being a churl is my business, so here goes. Fish soup with rouille was a thin, aniseedy broth weirdly swamped with paprika - a dementedly dissonant garnish, albeit one that unwittingly underscored the Mittel-European flavour of the surroundings. The soup of the day, spinach and pea, was even more watery, though it improved the further down the bowl the spoon delved. Half a dozen escargots in their shells, although correctly swamped with garlic butter and parsley, were weedy and under-salted. All three main courses were better than the starters, but in only one case spectacularly so. Grilled onglet came in properly pink slices, as if trying to pass itself off as chateaubriand, and had none of the toughness that can ruin this cheap bovine cut (skirt). But it was slightly undone by an overly sweetened red wine reduction. A fricassee of chicken was beautifully cooked to a pliant finish, but the meat was poor and tasteless. The highlight of the meal, by light years, was the steak haché - hamburger, to you - which was studded with peppercorns, tasted potently of well-reared cattle, and was exceptionally good. Chips were cool and cardboardy, a celeriac remoulade lacked crunch, and the puddings (profiteroles, a cherry and hazelnut tart, and the beaten egg whites on a custard base known to our friends and neighbours as îles flottantes) were adequate but perfunctory. Yet the food, as I'm always saying, is only half the battle with any restaurant, and a far smaller fraction in this one. For all the ersatz feel of a room I can't help thinking belongs in a Las Vegas casino, this is a hugely slick, impeccably serviced and massively impressive operation. It may induce awed admiration rather than love; but it demands a visit from anyone who values a lavish serving of cut-price, retro-bling luxury above a decent bowl of soup.