I eyed the waiter as he attempted to squeeze olive oil out of a plastic syringe into my dipping bowl. Nervously, I wondered if I should mention that there was an air bubble in the tube. From years of watching medical soaps, I knew this was a culinary embolism waiting to happen.

‘Um,’ I began, but never finished. The air bubble popped and olive oil splattered all over the gleaming stainless steel table. And my shirt.

The medical-instrument faux pas, while annoying, was just one example of Aurum’s unfamiliarity with its own MO: the much-hyped molecular gastronomy, a style of cuisine based more on chemistry than traditional cooking, and its design theme of surgery chic. The ground-floor reception – an entire wall of stainless steel lockers and medical lamps – is an eerie facsimile of a morgue, while the dining room upstairs is a small, shimmering gold space incongruously crowned by a disco ball (after dinner, the whole place converts to a dance club). Operating-room lights loom over the open kitchen, while the Wedgwood cutlery – specially selected, it would seem, for its close resemblance to scalpels – is stored in a sliding tray in front of each diner. Disconcertingly, all the seats in the main room are wheelchairs, although the only way for a person who really needs one to get into this place is via the back service elevator. Everyone else must climb a narrow, winding staircase.

Clement Lee – executive director of Lifebrandz, the company that owns Aurum – is unapologetic . ‘Anything as new and as untried as this concept [of food and decor] is bound to attract critics,’ he says. ‘And we’re more than prepared for them.

We’re not so sure about that. Prior to Aurum’s opening this past December, there was considerable buzz in gourmet circles. Named after the Latin word for gold, it was touted as Singapore’s answer to Spain’s famed molecular gastronomy outpost, El Bulli, and England’s Fat Duck. Well, we gave Aurum a few months to work the kinks (and air bubbles) out of its system, but even with time and a new menu, the prognosis is still poor.

Our first dinner was impressive, but more for the number of courses it contained than for its flavor. Shards of banana crisps and a caramelised sheet of pistachio impaled on a lollipop were cute, but not quite tasty; and the solid chunk of olive oil served like pate with crackers was a bland reminder that we were just eating, well, solidified oil. The veal shank with lemon puree was better, but we found two real winners: a concoction of oil, water and flour that miraculously turned into soba when drizzled into an intense hot dashi broth; and a martini glass layered with sweet caramelised onions, foamy egg yolks and hot frothy mashed potatoes that served as a worthy tribute to a Spanish omelette. The popular faux caviar of tiny golden lychee pearls might’ve been worthy of the hype if it hadn’t been so bland.

A second visit showed that chef Edward Voon had been boning up on more recipes (menus will change every three to four weeks). This time, he showed more ingenuity (an oyster wrapped in a cellophane made of consommé sat on top of a watermelon cube), but still missed the mark (the oyster was insipid, and the melon wasn’t sufficiently sweet or chilled). A mix of parmesan essence and agar piped onto a plate of olive oil made for a deliciously strange spaghetti, and the seared scallops anointed with aerated clouds of laksa gravy were entertaining to be sure, but at the end of the meal, I remained vaguely hungry. At a set price of $148 without wine, that’s not what the doctor ordered. For that price, Aurum’s whole game needs to be much tighter: service, food and dining experience. The wine menu, for instance, is printed in tiny font on black X-ray charts, and is impossible to read in the dim light. I had to ask for a torch. At least the wheelchairs work.