No Hot Breakfast, No Apology

Halfway through the evening, at some point between the scallop tartare and the roast monkfish with fresh pea puree, chef Raymond Blanc suddenly appears and makes a triumphal tour of the dining room.

Quite why he does this is unclear, for he admits that he rarely, if ever, actually cooks at Le Manoir Aux Quat' Saisons, his famous restaurant in Oxfordshire. Yet here he comes now, resplendent in his monogrammed chef's whites, fending off the starstruck embrace of a diner who staggers to her feet and shouts: ''I'll never cook shepherd's pie again!''

Next, another table of admirers, their faces upturned towards him like flowers seeking the sun, compliment him on his witty ways avec tomato essence. Then it's my turn. Up close, Blanc looks waxy and exhausted, with a deep web of lines spooling down under his eyes, making his skin look like crosshatched squid. We shake hands and he mumbles some pale pleasantries before moving on to the next table, his dead gaze alighting upon a diner who tells him that he has enjoyed his dinner ''so far''. The chef shakes his head. ''You see, that is such a typically English answer,'' he cries. ''That is something only an Englishman would say.''

For nearly 35 years, Raymond Blanc has been telling the English, and anyone else who would listen, how to eat, what to eat and why we are not as good at eating as the French. A native of Besançon, the capital of the Franche-Comte region in the far east of France, he moved here in 1972, opening his first restaurant five years later and going on to become one of a only handful of chefs in this country to win two Michelin stars. Legend has it that the first words Blanc spoke after alighting on British soil were; ''Your fish and chips are disgusting!'' closely followed by; ''Cooking is an act of love. To put a frozen bag in the microwave for your child is an act of hate.''

Since then, oh dear, sometimes it has seemed as if there is nothing any of us can get right. The exacting Monsieur Blanc was recently in the news for writing an article in Waitrose Food Illustrated magazine, complaining that popular television programmes about restaurants were a disaster for the catering industry and that they ''strip people of dignity and promote abuse''.

He also wrote: ''Eight million morons watch these programmes... the brains of the British have gone soft,'' and went on to note that ''until recently, the main requirement for being a chef in the UK was to have had a frontal lobotomy, to be a social outcast and an academic failure''.

Can it be true, I wonder, walking across the Manoir courtyard next morning, towards the purpose-built kitchen block where Blanc has his office and is waiting to be interviewed. Although he also has a small chain of Blanc Brasseries, he mainly operates at the high to stratospheric end of the restaurant and hotel market, a world where a small green salad costs £ 16 and a main course of roast beef with foie gras will set you back £ 38. ''It is gastronomy,'' he will say with a shrug, much in the manner that one would expect Picasso to explain away the multi-million price tag on one of his paintings.

Blanc sits behind a desk piled high with papers, a small cup of espresso at his elbow and an expectant look on his face. It's no surprise that he does not remember me from last night - there's no reason why he should - and from the start, he exhibits a twitchy, restless energy and the controlling tendencies of the benign autocrat. ''Don't make it up, OK,'' he barks at one point. ''Why do you interrupt?'' at another. Yet I must butt in, for Blanc is the voluble type; the kind of domineering, self-appointed thinker who has his own agenda and who fondly believes that an interview is actually a monologue.

''Oh! I always spread myself too thin, but I want to show you the behaviour of the new modern guest who is so stressed,'' he begins, before rattling on for infinity about... bed linen. ''Duvet or blanket? Interestingly, 60 per cent of my guests prefer a duvet and 40 per cent prefer blanket, what does that tell you? Of course there is a sub-division, but the blanket is about comfort, safety and mother's nurturing, while the duvet is about freedom and roaming around and...''

Well, I say! You obviously pay a great deal of attention to detail.

''Absolutely. It is all about detail! You know, I am a complete micro-idiot. Yes, you can accuse me of micro-idiocy any time.''

Underneath The Octopus, Not Nice

The rooms and suites at Le Manoir, a converted 15th-century English country house, are eye-watering, and not in a good way. Each is individually designed and named by Blanc with a kind of mad Gallic zeal that's almost appealing but mostly appalling. "Lace'', where I stayed, has the prinked allure of an old folks' home, with lace tablecloths, lace accessories and a giant lace canopy slumped over the bed like a dead octopus. And at £ 800 a night, I had expected a little more luxe than a smoked mirror where the fire should be, a powder puff that smelt of old talc, and an English breakfast not included. Indeed, for that amount of money, I would have expected a hot breakfast not only included, but personally delivered by Blanc with an award-winning rose clamped between his naked buttocks.

''Yes, it is expensive, but there is no apology for that, it is the nature of excellence,'' he says, with a breezy wave of the hand. ''If you are going to buy a beautiful car or a beautiful house it is going to cost you money. To come to the Manoir will cost you money, but when you leave I hope you will feel richer rather than poorer.''

He shows me the draft plans for a new room he is designing, based on a terraced mountain he saw in Thailand, which he hopes to realise here with ''miles of organza, silk and grass paper''.

Regarding his organic kitchen garden, he enthuses about ''the miracle of growing my own carrots'' and cooking them for guests minutes after they have been pulled - but, as he claims to feed 78,000 guests every year, surely he'd need a garden the size of Norfolk to cope?

Elsewhere, the last meal Blanc cooked himself for his friends and family was a simple affair of soup, roast lamb, cheese and ''really great wine'', but he insists that ''people'' - and by this he must mean those soft-brained Brits who enjoyed food cooked by lobotomised chefs - now only want to eat multi-course tasting menus. That's why he has scaled down Le Manoir's à la carte to only three starters and three main courses, replacing choice with one five-course and one 10- course menu. Is that really what people want? Or does it just make life easier for the kitchen?

''Do not compare gastronomy with simple, lovely bistro or lovely pub grub or your mum's food, OK?''

I'm not.

''Well, there is no doubt today that guests love the idea of surprise; that voyage of discovery of new textures, new flavours and exciting excitement. I have done my research and what I found is that no one in gastronomy or anyone else wants a three-course meal. It is over.''

Really?

''Yes, really! The three-course meal is very much connected with heavy courses in your stomach and lack of adventure. People now want a multi-course experience and they want a surprise that will take them away from the stress of their lives.''

Everybody Shouts Sometimes - Even Raymond

I'd settle for a surprise that would take me away from the stress of my Manoir bill, yet there is no doubt that Blanc is an influential character and that his kitchens here have, over the years, been a breeding ground for some of Britain's most notable cooking talent. Although it is stretching matters to say that he actually trained them, many of Britain's biggest gastro names passed through the Manoir kitchens on their way to fame, culinary fortune and gaining Michelin stars of their own. Some of them, including Heston Blumenthal, Michael Caines, John Burton-Race and Eric Chavot, attended a celebratory Manoir lunch last year, while other gilded alumni - such as Marco Pierre White - did not.

''Marco was not invited to the celebration. Simply, it is very difficult to be a friend of Marco. I won't say more, but I wanted it to be something friendly, something with no egos involved,'' says Blanc.

While we're on the subject of celebrity chefs, it seems obvious that every time Blanc hits out at those who make ''abusive'' television programmes about restaurants, he means Gordon Ramsay, doesn't he?

''Hah! No,'' says Blanc. ''Gordon Ramsay doesn't interest me. It is the culture that it propagates on television programmes that I hate; they are all done only to shock. They are hollow, they have nothing except mild entertainment solely taken from the abuse given to the participant. Just like Alan Sugar. It is about undermining people instead of encouraging them and I disapprove very strongly.''

Had Blanc read a recent interview in which Ramsay called him a ''f---ing two-faced French t---?''

Blanc turns pink and starts scrabbling madly through his papers. ''No,'' he says eventually. "What did Ramsay mean?''

Perhaps, I venture, that Blanc was a hypocrite?

''I am not saying that I am whiter than white, I made my own mistakes when I didn't know better but now I do know. My biggest mistake has been to be rude in the kitchen. Everybody shouts sometimes, even me, but I do it very, very very rarely. I may have been a hypocrite in my private life, but not at work.''

Blanc has been married twice, and has two grown-up sons, Sebastian and Oliver, who have forged careers in television rather than catering. ''I gave my sons their freedom,'' he says grandly - he obviously disapproves of dynastic cooking.

In fact, outside his own circle, there is very little that Blanc does approve of and he rarely has a good word to say about anyone, even if he now claims that when he wrote that British chefs were half-witted outcasts, he meant it ''historically''. Now he wonders if I have ever had the pleasure of eating at Le Manoir. Yes, I tell him. I had dinner here last night. For the first time since we met, his tired old eyes look shocked.

© jan moir 2007

• First published May 2006 (Our review of Le Manoir can be found in the Reviews section on this website ) © jan moir are you ready to order