Mju, Knightsbridge

Tetsuya Wakuda is the latest fashionable fusion chef to arrive here from Australia - and his is a very fishy business

From the outset I had to get help. How to pronounce Mju? It rhymes with new. Then a quick mug up on the chef. "He's been consistently perfect for years, he's classical but hip," I was told by the Australian informant I'd enlisted. Tetsuya Wakuda is considered one of, if not the, best in Australia, and one of a handful of chefs whose highly individual style and reputation crosses continents. His origins and self-taught trajectory – arriving in 1982 in Australia from Japan barely able to speak English, working his way up from kitchen hand to chef-patron in seven years – are legendary. His book, Tetsuya has just been published here. In this, as well as the recipes professional and amateur cooks want to get their hands on – confit of Petuna ocean trout with fennel salad; roast barramundi with bitter green truffled peaches; roast scampi with tea and scampi oil, among them – he expands his philosophy of faites simple, or, in his words, make simplicity abundant.

From the outset I had to get help. How to pronounce Mju? It rhymes with new. Then a quick mug up on the chef. "He's been consistently perfect for years, he's classical but hip," I was told by the Australian informant I'd enlisted. Tetsuya Wakuda is considered one of, if not the, best in Australia, and one of a handful of chefs whose highly individual style and reputation crosses continents. His origins and self-taught trajectory – arriving in 1982 in Australia from Japan barely able to speak English, working his way up from kitchen hand to chef-patron in seven years – are legendary. His book, Tetsuya has just been published here. In this, as well as the recipes professional and amateur cooks want to get their hands on – confit of Petuna ocean trout with fennel salad; roast barramundi with bitter green truffled peaches; roast scampi with tea and scampi oil, among them – he expands his philosophy of faites simple, or, in his words, make simplicity abundant.

Central to this is that what you eat is decided for you. At his London restaurant Mju, lunch is £25, dinner double that for between five and 10 courses. The wine list includes a varied selection by the glass and matching them with the many courses calls for expert advice. No wonder among the swarm of staff – all God knows how many of them – there were two sommeliers. With the two glasses of wine sweetly but barely comprehensibly recommended, our lunch was more than £40 each. A snip compared to dinner, when you're not only expected to pay international executive prices, but to do so in a could-be-anywhere-in-the-world hotel.

Mju is not visible from the street or even from the lobby of the Millennium Knightsbridge ( né the Chelsea) Hotel. It occupies a space at the top of a stairwell, under a glass atrium. What seem to be three bedroom windows overlook it. Most striking is the communal table. According to my Australian mentor, this is typical of Sydney, as is being able to eat at Tetsuya's wearing shorts. As the bar at Mju offers Fendi Fizz, Gucci Royale and Knightsbridge Lady cocktail, I'd guess you're expected to dress more smartly in London.

The waiter told us what we would be having. Any allergies? No, though anyone allergic or even just adverse to seafood might as well give up now. We were quite prepared for lobster mousse; tuna tartar, crab salad, eel; lobster pasta; spatchcock or orange honey and black pepper sorbet. We weren't expecting even more seafood.

The lobster mousse, the pink of 1960s nail varnish under shimmering clear jelly of wakame (seaweed) garnished with aniseedy shiso leaves, in a martini glass, was truly lovely. Amuse-gueule, appetiser, whatever, it was more amusing, more appetising, more lobstery, actually, than lobster ever is.

A tasting menu like this is designed so each course is a cadenza, making the usual starter, main course, dessert composition look like a clunking three-chord affair. After the mousse came a plate with seafood three ways: tuna tartar with a hint of mustardy wasabi and of ginger; a sliver of grilled eel which I mistook for mackerel, although it was finer in every respect than that fish ever is; and an exquisite little heap of crab meat with black sesame seeds.

An ensuing smoked salmon tian with truffle oil, though more evidence of Tetsuya's perfectly controlled flavouring, didn't provide any of the (by then) required contrast. It was similar to the tuna tartar and, like the lobster mousse, had cress on top playing the part of a parsley garnish. 'This is all very lovely, but do I need a third course of cold fish?' wondered my ex-pat companion. By then I, too, craved vegetables and not more Omega 3 fatty acids.

Then followed – you've guessed it – more raw seafood. But this carpaccio of scallop was saved from seeming like more of the same, by coming on top of foie gras and with a citrus dressing. It was inspired, glorious; luxury with more purpose than the desire to show off expensive ingredients. Even so, "it's an unusual place that can make me crave steak," the untypical Australian admitted. A gorgeous plate of pasta, generously bristling with lobster and lubricated with shellfish oil, simply delayed the arrival of some meatier substance.

If these four or five – there seemed to be more than were actually billed on the lunch menu – preceding courses were by way of a build-up to something other than seafood, the climax was surprisingly muted. The double-cooked spatchcock – it didn't say of what, and when it came, it wasn't the usual flattened bird – was a poussin, de-boned, poached first then grilled. Not especially crisp on the outside, but it was so tender, it was paradoxically quite hard to get a knife into. Truffle oil had been included, but more intriguing was the cooked daikon (radish) underneath it. It's usually served raw, but was juicier than any hot root veg, and was the only incidence of crunch in eight courses.

After strawberry and lychee sorbet the final, magical mouthfuls were of a floating island, the angelically cloud-like version of meringue, lapped by pools of vanilla and praline creams. When broached, from the celestial froth of meringue sprung rivulets of raspberry and chocolate sauces.

Each course had been simple and perfect, but did it add up to more? "I feel he could have done better," admitted my expert companion. "And I'm surprised by how much of the meal has been more Japanese than anything else. Maybe they think that will work best in Knightsbridge."

We felt we'd overdosed on the essential fatty acids that give the Japanese a low incidence of heart disease. Perhaps the hotel's expecting customers for whom a chef's celebrity rating and the calorie content of their meal matter most.

Although it seems to suffer from the lack of personality that affects the remote-control restaurant, when we went Tetsuya, who will be here one week each month in between being in Sydney, was in evidence. He even had his photograph taken by one of the waiters, flanked by two adoring women customers. And when he's not there, chef Chris Behre must be executing his menus.

Tetsuya is one of several Australian chefs to have recently arrived in London, possibly establishing a bridgehead to the USA, and somewhat abandoning the casual, accessible Australian ethos by sequestering themselves in hotels where having a fusion chef's restaurant – think Vong, Nobu – is becoming almost a requisite. Still, I can see why people worship his food. If you're prepared to overlook the international pall of the surroundings, and pay the price, I'd say, take a pju.

Mju, Millennium Knightsbridge Hotel, 17 Sloane Street, London SW1 (020-7201 6330), Mon-Fri lunch 12-2.30pm, dinner 6-10pm. All cards accepted. Wheelchair access but not lavatories