FLORIANA by Alice Thomson

RESTAURANTS at Christmas can be gruesome affairs. In one corner the office groper is fondling his turkey leg and the secretary's thigh while trying to pull a cracker with the boss, in another, lovers are sharing a last cigarette before returning to their families for the festive season, and in a third a stepmother is handing over pre- sents to her squabbling stepchildren know- ing that even a Furby isn't going to be enough.

To make matters worse, we are subjected to melon balls, fatty goose, chipolatas and mince pies by chefs who usually produce such delicacies as baby squid, yakisoba noo- dles, local fallow deer, or triglia alla griglia — grilled red mullet. Business lunches are a disaster. Order the spaghetti vongole and you're likely to get a mouthful of party pop- per just as you're discussing the economy. And then there's the music — a concoction of jinglebells, the Spice Girls and hacking coughs.

This is not some anti-Yuletide rant. I love Christmas, I just prefer spending it at home. But in the interests of this column I dragged two of my most glamorous friends out to dinner at Floriana, a restaurant that is meant to be so suave and sophisticated it wouldn't dream of fiddling with fake snow or tripping us up with tinsel. Floriana is more than just another Italian trattoria, it's a Eurotrashoria, the baby of Riccardo Maz- zucchelli, the ex-fiance of Ivana Trump, Queen of Hello! magazine. So it's dripping with classy baubles, not to mention babes in Gucci, Pucci and baguette bags from Fendi who pay £150 to toy with an endive salad. The men all have perfectly manicured chest hair, handbags to match their aftershave and no job. Even the street is plush Beauchamp Place is home to Janet Reger underwear, the ultimate stocking-filler.

So I wasn't feeling too depressed when I opened the door, in fact I was rather buoy- ant. Our few rich continental friends had raved about the raviolo of veal sweetbread with roasted langoustines. The chef, Fabio Trabocchi, they said, not only looked divine, he cooked superbly and didn't stint on the truffles, foie gras and caviar.

I felt slightly queasy when I saw the piano, it was the self-playing variety favour- ed by Mohamed Al Fayed in Harrods. The black and white keys were manically pump- ing up and down to the strains of 'We Three Men'. Surely they could afford a pianist? But the very rich arc allowed a lit- tle cheap kitsch in their lives. At least the Christmas tree looked real and the acres of soothing cream walls, marble and topiary were the perfect accompaniment to the highlighted, wind-proof hair and emerald tiaras.

No one came to take my coat, maybe it's because it wasn't fur or pashima but a muddy brown leather jacket. So left to my own devices, I checked out the lavatories (extremely clean), peered into the kitchen (also pristine) and scanned Hello! at the bar trying to match my neighbours — who were either dressed in pink tweed and ironed jeans, or tinsy pieces of sequinned cloth with their photos of their lovely homes.

The maitre d' finally arrived and ushered my husband, Ed, and our friends, Hugh and Catherine, to our table, squeezed between raucous groups of Habsburgs, Bourbons, Archers and Palmer-Tompkinson types.

Ten minutes later a smartly dressed wait- er lumbered up and flicked the menus at us, then stood picking his nails menacingly. `Could we have a bottle of the house cham- pagne?' my husband asked (price about £35). The waiter spun on his maroon loafers and came back ten minutes later with a bottle. He began peeling off the top. `Excuse me,' Ed said, 'but I think you've got the wrong champagne, that's vintage' (price about £100).

`I've started opening it,' the waiter hissed.

My husband is normally a mild-man- nered man, the type who is quite happy to spend an afternoon tracking down a bridal barbie doll outfit for his niece, but once riled he's fearsome. 'I'm afraid I didn't order this bottle,' he said very slowly. The — but you earn high marks for wheelchair accessibility.' waiter carried on regardless. 'Stop, you idiot,' Ed demanded, grabbing the bottle just in time.

That sealed the evening. From then on the waiters decided we were the measly `only prepared to spend £100 a head' vari- ety, and Ed and Hugh had turned against the place. 'It doesn't even tell you the year of a £165 bottle of Château d'Yquem,' Ed complained, while the waiters would only talk to Catherine's cleavage.

We put on a brave face. The menu looked exceptional. For the first time in my life I could have ordered every dish. We agreed on the pumpkin cappuccino with wild mushrooms and Alba white truffle, the endive tarte with scallops in a bitter orange and tarragon sauce, the Landois duck foie gras and a trio of scallops, cured salmon and marinated crab tartare with langous- tine and mackerel escabeche.

Three rounds of bread later, our first courses arrived but were whisked away again when the waiters realised we hadn't yet been given our appetisers. So they sat on the side while we gulped down a mouth- ful of warm cauliflower purée (delicious). It was perhaps unfair to judge the resulting cold concoctions. They looked as perfect as Ivana's make-up, the flavours were beauti- fully matched. My cappuccino was silky. But it was all stone-cold and the boldness of the cooking was marred by the inferiority of some of the basic ingredients. The scal- lops were fibrous, the cured salmon slip- pery and the pansy in the salad affected.

The primi piatti sounded equally sumptu- ous starting with steamed Scottish lobster and ravioli of celeriac purée, with artichoke and sorrel in a lobster jus. But we could only afford two courses and a shared pud- ding, so we went straight to the main cours- es. Mine was lobster casserole with wild mushrooms, white beans and winter black truffle. I want it for my birthday every year (but hot, not luke-warm). The sea bass steamed in lettuce with oysters was gener- ous but limp, needing a little plastic surgery perhaps. The roasted Challandais duck magret, with ravioli of confit duck leg, was inspirational. Only Hugh's beef filet was as chilly and unappetising as the waiter's smirk.

Our one pudding was agonisingly deli- cious, a coffee, vanilla and chocolate crème brftlee, although the flavours could have been more intense. The petits fours made up for the sloppy coffee and the 20-minute wait for the £432 bill.

Catherine and Hugh couldn't have been more charming. The food was exceptional — a world away from chianti bottles and peas in carbonara. But does the chef realise that his talents are being squandered by a group of surly waiters wrapped in a 1970's timewarp, and did the Eurotrash airkissing under the mistletoe appreciate all those sauce reductions?

Floriana, 15 Beauchamp Place, London SW3; tel: 0171838 1500. £100 a head.