When I first started taking clients out for dinner, you could sit under the copper dome of Le Gavroche, order a bottle of claret you’d never dare drink at home, and—after a couple of courses, a soufflé, and a few discreet nods from the maître d’—leave only mildly lighter in wallet and spirit.
Today, on the same site, you can do much the same thing at Matt Abé’s new venture Bonheur. Only now, the bill for two will come in at £250 before you’ve even blinked at the digestif list.
I’m not one for false nostalgia—restaurants must evolve, chefs must be paid, and if anyone’s earned the right to resurrect a Mayfair temple of gastronomy it’s Abé. But there’s a creeping sense that fine dining has priced itself into absurdity. And for once, it’s not just about greedy restaurateurs; it’s about the country we’ve built around them.
Energy bills have soared. Not just yours or mine, but those of restaurants that rely on gas ranges, endless refrigeration, and enough light to flatter every banker’s jowls. Add to that the cost of labour in an industry already haemorrhaging staff post-Brexit, and suddenly that tasting menu looks less like an indulgence and more like a desperate act of financial survival.
The Chancellor, Rachel Reeves, would like us to believe that things are finally “stabilising”. I’ve seen more stability in a soufflé during a Tube strike. Her Treasury may be trying to keep business afloat, but when small restaurants are seeing energy costs double, the effect is akin to throwing a life jacket to a man who’s already under the water.
Fine dining, long the glitzy tip of the hospitality iceberg, is the first to feel the cracks. It was never about volume or turnover; it was about art. A kitchen like Abé’s depends on precision, patience, and prodigiously expensive ingredients that can’t be bought in bulk. When your butter alone costs more than most people’s rent, “value for money” ceases to be a meaningful phrase.
Once upon a time, £160-£180 for two was a generous way to mark a birthday or sign a contract. Now it’s merely the entry fee for breathing the same air as a Michelin inspector. And before the chorus begins: yes, I know what goes into it. I’ve sat in enough stainless-steel kitchens to appreciate the choreography of twenty cooks plating thirty dishes in silence. I know the rent in Mayfair. I know what happens to a menu when olive oil triples in price.
But—and forgive the sentimentality—I also know what a restaurant used to mean. At Le Coq d’Argent or Claridge’s or Marcus Wareing’s at the Berkeley, you could justify the expense as part theatre, part negotiation. It was business done in a place that made everyone feel like someone. You weren’t buying food; you were buying atmosphere, attention, and a tiny square of London’s self-confidence.
Today, that same dinner feels faintly transactional. The food is exquisite, the wine list terrifyingly precise, and yet something human has been lost. When you know a single starter costs as much as the average family’s weekly shop, the pleasure sours slightly. The magic evaporates with the steam from the consommé.
Reeves’ problem—indeed, the country’s problem—is that we’ve stopped treating restaurants as part of the cultural ecosystem. When energy prices bite, when VAT hovers at the same rate as fast food, and when landlords charge what they like, the effect isn’t just fewer Michelin stars; it’s fewer apprentices, fewer suppliers, fewer reasons for tourists to bother crossing the Channel for dinner.
You can’t build an “innovation economy” on empty stomachs. Yet that’s what we seem to be trying. The government talks endlessly about growth while allowing one of Britain’s finest export industries—its hospitality scene—to suffocate under the weight of its own bills. Paris subsidises its bistros. Copenhagen practically canonises its chefs. In London, we just raise the price of the tasting menu and pretend everything’s fine.
Of course, there will always be those for whom £250 is a rounding error. The same crowd who will book Bonheur weeks ahead and post filtered shots of their langoustine tartlets. They’re not the problem. The problem is the steady disappearance of the middle ground—the diners who once treated a grand restaurant as a reachable luxury. Those people are now in bistros, if they’re out at all, calculating the cost of bread service.
When I took clients to the Savoy or Claridge’s, it wasn’t just about indulgence; it was diplomacy. Deals were signed over lamb cutlets and laughter. You can’t do that if your guest is nervously Googling “how much to tip on £500”. Fine dining relied on aspiration, not intimidation.
Perhaps we should stop pretending fine dining is for everyone. Let it be what it now is: haute couture, admired from afar. But if we do, we must also accept that Britain loses something. Our restaurants have long been the quiet stages of our national life—places where ambition met artistry, where even a tax accountant could feel momentarily glamorous.
Reeves can’t control every gas bill, but she can recognise that hospitality is not a luxury to be tolerated; it’s a craft to be preserved. Energy relief for small restaurants, tax breaks for training, a re-think of VAT for the sector—none of it would cost much compared to the cultural value at stake.
Because once the £250 dinner becomes the norm, it stops being dinner. It becomes a ceremony for the few, performed behind heavy curtains while the rest of us eat at home and wonder when exactly Britain forgot how to go out.
Read more:
Fine dining’s death by a thousand cuts, and at least a £250 bill
