Balthazar: restaurant review

4-6 Russell Street, London WC2 (020 3301 1155). Meal for two, including wine and service: £120

Woo hoo! Look at me with my big fat arse slapped on one of Balthazar's red-leather banquettes. All those phone calls. All that frustration. Dealing with all those hand-wringing emails from Keith McNally, the British bloke who opened the original in New York and who has now joined forces with Richard Caring of the Caprice group to bring it to London. It's all paid off. Look! There's Cameron Mackintosh. And there's lovely Russell Tovey. And there's Nancy Dell'Olio looking like a pair of Oxford brogues in need of a good polish. I've arrived.

The thing is, I'm not precisely sure where. I adore grand set-piece restaurants. Just as every city needs a serious train station full of clocks for snogging couples to meet under, so it needs spectacular restaurants. Balthazar is certainly that, from the faux-nicotine-stained walls to the station clock, and the poised amber hue which makes the whole place look like it's been shot through an Instagram filter. It's a restaurant with a Hollywood production designer.

And it has heat. In one of his emails responding to my complaints about not being able to bag a table, McNally admitted he was "embarrassed" by the hotness thing. He told me that in 30 years as a restaurateur he'd never once had a PR, but now did because he's in business with Caring: "I've agreed to it, so I can't complain about it. But I wish I hadn't. Especially if this is part of the reason why there's an interest in Balthazar." That puts the oh-do-sod-off into disingenuous. He never needed a PR before because his New York clientele did the job for him unpaid. Balthazar complaining about being "hot" is like a hooker complaining about being accused of promiscuity. That's why they've opened the bloody place in London.

It will do fine, with or without my opinion. Look, Russell Tovey is already here. Need I say more? So why review? Because sometimes my job is like that of a weatherman. I have to tell you if it's raining regardless of whether you're thinking of going out or not.

How is it? A mixed bag. On the upside they have hired Brian Silva, one of the gods of the British cocktail scene, to run the bar. Tell him the kind of thing you like and he'll sort you out. Service is notable for being like frogspawn in spring: bloody everywhere. At Balthazar a table for two is a threesome. Until I told our waiter to stop fidgeting with the bread, the water, my id, it felt like licensed stalking. If a place like Balthazar can't get this right, what's the point of it? I don't imagine Nancy or Cameron like being fiddled with any more than I do.

As to the food, it is notable for being familiar. Hardly surprising given that the place is buffing and burnishing a set of brasserie clichés. You can find exactly the same stuff at the Wolseley or Brasserie Zédel or any other London joint that takes its cues from the same tradition. Less forgivably, it's currently not quite as good as any of them. The best dishes we tried were a seafood linguine with lots of roast garlic and bite and kick, and a crème brûlée. Mind you, if they couldn't knock out one of those – soft light crème, crisp-thin shell – it would be time for the pitchforks and burning stakes.

The rest ran on an onomatopoeic scale from ho hum to meh. A lobster and truffle risotto should be compelling and obsessive. It should be the classy version of a tube of Pringles. This was thin, underseasoned and curiously prissy. Escargot, likewise, were in need of a good dose of heart-stopping salt. The famed duck shepherd's pie had too floppy and overworked a potato topping, and too slippery and gravy-slicked a filling. A Pavlova was a complete fail for having hard overcooked meringue and no cream. None of this was disastrous, but when your proposition is so simple you don't have wriggle room. Most of these dishes are classics. Either you get them right or you stay home.

Not that any of this will make the slightest bit of difference to their business. You try getting a table. Not that I will. Not again. I'm done.

Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk. Follow Jay on Twitter @jayrayner1