Massimo, London WC2, restaurant review Thrown into the aural mix at exceeding volume, meanwhile, was a form of techno-jazzy music that defied identification by my friend, and he has been a music critic for 30 years. "No idea, but whatever it is," he said, "get me a pistol and I'll pick off every speaker in the room." I slapped him down. Violence is never the answer to personal distaste. Anyway, in a room this size you'd need an automatic rifle to take out all the speakers. I pondered approaching a new arrival who looked like he might know where to lay hands on an AK47 at short notice, but concluded that this might verge on the unprofessional. So we sat there, subdued by the chilliness and faux grandeur of a rectangular space dominated by a quartet of giant, gold-plated chandeliers running down the middle, styled after the bathyspheres in which deep-sea divers are gently submerged, and the fancy oyster bar at the far end of the room. If the opulence promised at least cracking service, this was a vow swiftly broken. Between requesting a jug of tap water and that jug arriving fell no fewer than 23 minutes. During this hiatus, which we felt might have been briefer had we ordered a bottle of Maldon, we found a novelty in the menu - a long, chefly spiel signed by one Massimo Riccioli, written in his native tongue and left untranslated. Although I don't speak Italian, I was amused to note, after 17 waterless and waiterless minutes, the word "l'ospitalità"; but unamused by another word because, to adapt Hermann Goering on culture, when I read the word "filosofia" in any language in a menu, I reach for my (sadly) metaphorical Kalashnikov. Whatever Riccioli's filosofia might be - if they can't be bothered to translate, nor can I - he must be a far better cook than he suggested this lunchtime. He comes from a highly regarded restaurant in Rome, and some have raved about his à la carte cooking here. Indeed, Massimo is apparently the destination joint du jour for wealthy expats who do not give a fig (or "figa": some of us try to be inclusive) about prices. We, on the other hand, give a great-a big-a figa. When my friend spotted £20 inscribed beside an antipasto, he did the decent thing and joined me in plumping for the three-course set lunch. He kicked off with half a dozen (norovirus-free) Loch Fyne oysters, and even though the one I swallowed seemed a touch emaciated or weedy, he was happy enough with them. I was not at all happy with a mushy crab salad which came, for reasons beyond my comprehension, with viciously bitter polenta. "Oh dear," said my friend when force-fed a forkful. Oh dear, oh dear. Both main courses were supposed to look winsomely peasanty, but in fact looked plain hideous. My friend's gnocchi with lamb ragu resembled mince and tatties in a Glaswegian greasy spoon, while the mouthful he passed over was dominated by gristle. My lamb cutlets were oversalted, too fatty and stone cold. The purpose of the accompanying apple sauce and horseradish escaped me. Perhaps chef was making a clever, nihilistic point (molto filosofico) about how, while the one goes so well with pork and the other with beef, neither goes at all with lamb. The techno-jazz gladly gave way to phoney neo-reggae, as performed by the Amateur Youth Lift Music Sinfonietta, and, by the time puddings - adequate "sweet and salty" ginger crème brûlée; a passable selection of ice creams - were brought to the table, we were the last survivors. "Do you have any..." began my friend as the plates were removed. "Yes," interrupted the waiter, startlingly, "I'll bring you that in a moment." Erm. I was going to ask if you have any kümmel. It's a liqueur. They didn't have that, or Poire William, just as they hadn't had a single bottle of rosé, which seemed less praiseworthy than not having iced tea lemonade. But then this mix of the flashy and the desultory had nothing to offer the set-menu diner other than outrageous drinks prices (£2.75, forsooth, for a splash of tonic), confused service and sullen mediocrity. Except, perhaps, the cheering possibility that no restaurant visited in 2012 will demand to be forgotten as swiftly and completely as this one.