I was speaking to a chap very much involved in the promotion of his home town. In order to attract the monied weekending gastrotourist, he said, a city needed at least three stellar restaurants. Perhaps this is why Manchester keeps dishing up the kind of place that effectively has a “Notice me, Messieurs Michelin!” banner across its frontage, needy as a Facebook page.

Already tugging at the tyre men’s coat-tails are, of course, The French by Simon Rogan and Manchester House. Poor old Quill lasted only five minutes, unsure whether its audience was hardcore foodies or orange soap stars. But, just round the corner, here’s Grafene with everything a box-ticking restaurant inspector could wish for: tasting menus, local provenance, “artisan suppliers”, “open pastry kitchen”, “scientifically inspired cocktails”. You name it, they’re on it.

This former Brasserie Blanc breathes “massive, tumescent budget” with every mustard-glazed tile, sleek grey banquette and marble-topped table. It’s undeniably handsome in a boudoir-meets-Terry-Gilliam’s-Brazil kind of way. I hope the investment isn’t all from owners Paul and Kathryn Roden (of the Losehill House Hotel and Spa in the Peak District). On the strength of our seven-course, £49.50 tasting menu, they might have been better off with a bunch of Isas.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Grafene, Manchester: ‘The lamb cutlet is sous-vided so punitively that it’s like cutting jelly.’ Photograph: Rebecca Lupton/The Guardian

There are decent dishes: brill (its skin a little uncrisped and gelatinous) on a “risotto” of cauliflower with a kaleidoscope of other caulis: purple, orange, romanesco. There are grapes, samphire, a resonant crab bisque and lemon gelée should you feel over-brassicaed. Fine, sultry duck ham with beetroot crumb, smoked almonds and pomegranate. It’s a no-place-to-hide style of cooking that has to be utterly pure, utterly perfect. But Grafene’s style is less purity and more muddled austerity. I’m forced to compare similar herb “soup” and pickled mackerel dishes here and at Edinburgh’s Norn. The difference in deliciousness is dramatic: Norn’s a luscious celebration of freshness, Grafene’s a bleak, sour penance.

Seasoning is all over the place – pea purée with Yellison goat curd is so bland it tastes like pea yoghurt. And ingredients are repeated like hiccups: three of the five savoury dishes contain bloody beetroot. Bread is served as its own course, as is the contemporary trope; but when as pedestrian as this – one crusty white, one crusty off-white with herbs, unremarkable butter – it really doesn’t deserve its spotlight.

Staff are trying hard. But surely even in the early days, they shouldn’t be conducting training during actual service, tableside? It’s like being examined in the presence of medical students. They like to point fingers at every element on the plate: “This is your red cabbage ketchup; this is your hotpot potato.” Bless them, it’s food, not a PowerPoint presentation. Said spud comes with a lamb cutlet, sous-vided so punitively that it’s like cutting jelly, and its collection of almost raw vegetables: carrots of varying hues, baby leek, more bloody beetroot. The potato itself is simply weird: a fuzzy barrel stuffed with lumpy mash. I don’t understand it at all. “This is my favourite dish,” says our lovely server, struggling womanfully.

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Eating becomes less blissful indulgence and more of a chore. Until we come to desserts, which are pretty flawless, especially barrels of truffly chocolate ganache with smooth, malty ice-cream and streaks of salted caramel.

Among all the high-falutin’ posturing, the pea wafers and sumac meringues, the menu offers a selection “from the Inka grill” – defiantly unambitious, for all the talk of Himalayan salt-ageing. There’s also breakfast, afternoon tea (sorrel- and beetroot-free) and a Sunday roast. I can understand why they’d want to be all things to all men, but it doesn’t exactly smack of conviction.

I’d love Grafene a lot more if it abandoned its try-hard, sub-Rogan schtick and concentrated on doing simpler stuff really well. As we leave, the bar is heaving and people are smoking outside in the al-fresco area with its “mood-changing light box”. My mood has definitely changed, from hopeful anticipation to the deflated acknowledgement that this is unlikely to be a rave. But then I’m not Messieurs Michelin, so perhaps they won’t be that fussed. “Are you ready for the Grafene experience?” demands the website. Well, I am. But I’m not sure Grafene is.

• Grafene, 55 King Street, Manchester M2. Open Mon-Sat 10am-10pm, Sun 10am-9pm About £45 a head, plus drinks and service.

Food 5/10

Atmosphere 7/10

Value for money 6/10