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Poor Warren Geraghty.

When West Restaurant's new executive chef landed in Vancouver last February, the entire country was dazzled by the shimmer of an illustrious, Michelin-starred career that has spanned 15 years in some of Europe's best restaurants.

At the time, one couldn't help but cheer for both him and West. Sure, the venerable South Granville eatery had lost the exceptionally talented executive chef that had built its stellar reputation from the ground up.

But when David Hawksworth left to create his own venture in the redeveloped Georgia Hotel, the restaurant came back swinging with a replacement so seemingly brilliant that even the haughtiest food snobs in Toronto bowed their heads in respect.

Then Lumière, West Restaurant's long-time archrival, delivered an unexpected left hook when its owners recruited New York's legendary Daniel Boulud - only to be trumped a few weeks later by the Shangri-La Hotel Vancouver, which confirmed that it was negotiating a new restaurant with Jean-Georges Vongerichten.

In no time at all, the foodie blogs were clogged with savoury rumours about Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay, who are both reportedly considering an expansion to Vancouver.

And suddenly it seemed as if Mr. Geraghty's star-spangled arrival had been completely eclipsed by the mythical gods of celebrity chefs who had massed their clouds over Grouse Mountain as they prepared to tear open the skies and pour down truffle-scented manna from heaven.

Still, even in the midst of all this monumental moving and shaking, I was still quietly pinning my highest hopes on the newly reshuffled underdog from London.

From the get-go, I sincerely hoped that this classically trained British import would wow Vancouver with something new, exciting and thousands of miles removed from our oh-so-tired and now sadly repetitive West Coast take on French Asian fusion. (Seriously, if I have to taste one more bite of truffle-specked black cod marinated in miso consommé, I might be forced to rip out my tongue.)

So I patiently waited several months before visiting, giving Mr. Geraghty plenty of time to get settled.

And when I finally made the plunge, I was fully prepared to fork out nearly $400 for a tasting menu with paired flights of wine (even though I still think the prices are outrageously expensive - even by London standards).

But then I was greeted by something I never imagined, not in my wildest dreams - a sour mouthful of rancid butter before I had even decided on what to order.

"It's not actually off," the maître d' calmly corrects, after whisking away the offensive pat of churned cow's cream.

The small dairy farm from which it hails is somewhat inconsistent, he explains. Then he leans in close and confides: If it's any consolation, the chef doesn't like the flavour either and is desperately searching for a new supplier.

Okay, so the butter tastes musty. Am I being excessively picky?

No. This small quenelle of bright yellow butterfat, although seemingly inconsequential, is hugely symbolic of the bigger problems Mr. Geraghty faces: Here we have an haute cuisine chef, steeped in the fatty goodness of butter, full cream and foie gras, who is struggling to understand our regional products while simultaneously pandering to someone's woefully outdated interpretation of our wholesome, healthy local palates.

Mr. Geraghty claims to love our abundance of local produce. Why wouldn't he? He competently stirs crispy fava beans into a tasty risotto with sautéed spring morels.

The local seafood, he will admit, is a bit of a struggle. He is still coming to grips with the local custom of flash freezing at sea (and later reviving in the kitchen) and the limited number of species available in the Northwest Pacific.

His hesitancy shows on the plate.

His petit pois à la française, simmered into a tender reduction with butter, lettuce and leeks, is actually more enticing than the flaky, overcooked roasted supreme of spring salmon it accompanies.

A creamy spinach sauce juices me more than a dry slab of Queen Charlotte Salmon that is rescued, only briefly, by a savoury mess of clams and mussels.

Seared Qualicum scallops are fussed up with roasted sweet peppers (for colour, I guess) and a creamy hummus sauce that stands out about as appetizingly as a well-sucked sore thumb.

Tiny cuts of octopus are gorgeously presented next to tidy rows of crisp cucumber, purple potato and golden beetroot. If only the sea meat weren't drenched in a candied layer of citrus orange.

Don't get me wrong - the lad of London is a supremely talented chef. His stocks and sauces, the foundations of any professional French kitchen, are more lip-smackingly luscious than any I've tasted in this city before.

His cooking glows most luminously when he is working with hearty meats and strong-flavoured victuals that might be commonplace in Europe, but are still exotic on our shore.

An amuse bouche of roasted snail is more than just play when it's stuffed in a golden beignet of deep-fried pastry, then suspended in a shot glass on a layered bed of earthy smoked eggplant and clear tomato jam.

A tough piece of veal tongue might wrinkle some finicky noses. But not when it's brined, braised and smoked into tender submission.

A roast loin of rabbit jumps for joy (at least in my mouth). It's cuddled up with tomato, green olive tapenade and lashes of fresh sage.

But the showpiece is the shellfish jus - half quail stock, half prawn bisque, reduced in half to a brown, sticky, savoury, wholesome mash.

This is fish stock? It looks like veal. That's not an insult. And I'm sure it's not an awakening.

Mr. Geraghty is flubbing his way through the local produce seasons. It's going to take him at least a year to figure out the fish.

In the meantime, I say, find a new butter supplier and pile it on. Stick to your original version of frog's legs coddled in rich cream (whoever told you to go with a vinaigrette was mad or anorexic). Bring back the foie gras.

Give us sweetbreads and calf's liver.

Stop pulling your punches.

Show us something new and exciting.

Right now you look like a French chef in North American drag.

I know that's not you, Mr. Geraghty.

So why don't you step up to the plate and show us something this city has never seen before.

West Restaurant: 2881 Granville St.; 604-738-8938

CORRECTION

The $400 tab mentioned in a review of West Restaurant in Vancouver on June 4 was for a meal for two people with wine