The approach to this well-babysat outpost of the Michelin-magnet chef’s international empire (all too often, world-class chefs of Pierre’s ilk lend their name and make for the bank without much thought for aftercare) makes you feel like James Bond being led into Q’s subterranean lair: the restaurant has its own lift, and the purple carpets are accented with sniper target insignia. Once inside, you might feel, however, that 007 has lowered himself from frighteningly elegant Russian ice queen to Paris Hilton. It’s all Venetian mirrors, hot pink booths and tremendous fun. Waiting staff have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ever-changing menu and even the well-travelled foodie will find surprises. If you’re lucky, the affable restaurant manager will talk you through the Daliesque amuse bouches, which are constructed from whatever’s been flown in from Europe in the last few hours. Abandon all hope of sparing food miles: Reflets is a plane-to-plate kind of place and a fine example of the ‘molecular gastronomy’ that Gagnaire is credited with creating.