Detoxicating Prose

WELCOME TO ‘saf’ (seasonal authentic food). This bright, ‘botanical’ restaurant is brought to you by ‘LifeCo’, an organisation which sounds like it might have cryogenically filed Walt Disney somewhere. In reality, its intentions are all about promoting ‘wellness’. Diet is of course part of that. An obvious statement, although you would be surprised how frequently my psychologist mother sees “irreparably hyperactive” children whose effervescence is attributable to no more than an o.d. of Sunny D.

‘Trendy’ Shoreditch’s version made its debut last April – there are other wheat grass green embassies in Munich and Turkey. I imagined it to be corny, even fluffy although it is of course neither, being gluten free and staunchly furless. It also disallows dairy and serves mostly raw food. The marketing at most only gently touches on this, which is cunning. On launch day I was elsewhere - bibbed in Madrid, grinding my way through several platters of haemorrhaging chops. They were so moistly cooked that my fellow carnivores actually applauded the chef.

Being blinkered by blood, I harboured three doubts about a ‘free from’ restaurant:

1. Lack of takers / masticators. There are very few vegans in the wild (around a quarter of a percent of the population). Many must have been put-off linen for life by poor plated appeasements in conventional establishments. Whilst fanatics of the flesh might stop by out of curiosity or confusion, a creeping nostalgia for protein could prevent repeat custom.

2. Sheer ambition and technological requirements. Using complex techniques such as ‘spheriphication’ born in elBulli-like workshops, a reasonably priced restaurant of calibre would be running at a loss for a long time.

3. Heather Mills is a regular.

Were my suspicions founded? Was the reality what a friend described as ‘all mung* beans and self loathing’? Veganism is not hedonism’s obvious bedfellow. Whilst December was calm, every table was taken on the January weekday when I went. A depressingly attractive set wearing tweed with irony were seeing through healthy resolutions. They were lured like yogis to a pot of rooibos for saf’s specially marked detox dishes. Spending pounds to lose them, although no one could be described as a challenge to the floorboards.

Over a carafe of Château Thames carefully filtered, adjusted to a sharp pH and garnished with cucumber, my companion, Jonathan from ‘Around Britain with a Paunch’ excitedly told me about the deer hanging in his parents garage. Despite our choice of venue, it seemed this would be a meating of minds.

Out of nine courses, the one most laden with promise was also the first: ‘Caviar’ with Sour ‘Cream’. Nothing is what it seems at saf, however, and what transpired was poignant, chirpy, kelpy chive pearls falling over scoops of cashew nut paste on sweet potato blinis. These smelt like white mushroom flesh. Two apple ‘chimneys’ rose. Dried beetroot powder was dusted across like crushed cochineal. This was matched with a Champagne saucer of charismatic organic cava from Albet I Noya. Incidentally, all drinks, from ‘The Safia’ chamomile / green gin in the stylishly bare bar to ‘groovy’ Grüner Veltliner from the wood fringed list are voted in for their natural beauty. The restaurant even runs a wine club.

A dedicated ‘cheese’ course of Pesto Au Poivre was the most filling dish – a tall stack of turkey scented cashew with bands of gently drying, feathery sage and a pink peppercorn crust. This was finished with a shallow trickle of white balsamic, tarragon and bacon-like heirloom tomatoes dried into crisp crackers. We wondered quite why this was so successful, until we paused to examine our vocabulary. We were desperately drawing meaty comparisons.

The Tom Kha Soup was the meal’s only concession to properly heated food. According to LifeCo, warming enzymes over 48 degrees Celsius depletes them. The coconut-lemon grass broth with tofu (welcome), oyster mushrooms and coriander was as near to being a complete dish as possible, but schizophrenically spicily out of character with the rest of the meal. In all fairness, the ‘Spicy – can be modified’ description should have cautioned us.

Swiss Chard Rolls with mung beans*, water chestnut, Thai vinaigrette, a shuffle of pickled cucumber and slimy seaweed was not the best looking dish, but probably the healthiest thing I have ever put in my mouth. It caused such a crunch in my cranium that I momentarily knew what it was like to be rabbit grinding its incisors. I may have appreciated it more had I had three more stomachs.

The mandarin scented chocolate ganache decorated with dried rosebuds was a valiant effort to supply something to salivate over whilst avoiding the untouchables. Pumpkin pie was decorated with a surprisingly delectable, nutty yet succulent winter pansy. Jonathan and I awkwardly joked that we might look like a couple of pansies. This is complimentary in a way – they are surprisingly hardy plants.

Soy milk holds all the appeal of a holiday in Hull - grassy Argentinean Yerba matte therefore replaced a macchiato. Thankfully it was heated above 48 degrees.

I would like to say that our six hours at saf passed like an eco fairy tale: ‘meat meets veg and lives happily ever after’. The food was carefully, painstakingly executed and daintily presented. It was enthusiastically explained by staff with energy and served with warmth. Arranged around an open plan kitchen cool in temperature and temperament, the room was a pleasure to sit within. Chef Chad Sarno was gracious with a greaseless hand. The cocktail list was spellbinding and the wines accessibly, encouragingly priced. The unisex loos with Ecover handwash were immaculate No wonder pilgrims are making the journey from Britain and beyond.

Inevitably however saf remains a slightly tough nut to crack. It packs too many culinary genres on one menu, from Caesar salad to samosas, Thai soup to Chinese pancakes and fake pasta to British roots and shoots. It also represents ingrediental absenteeism: imagine the Mona Lisa in monochrome. Whilst it keeps its principles discreet, I left feeling smugly privileged that my life is enriched by death. That night I dreamt of molten butter spread deeply onto toast triangles, almost curdling cream, sticky, runny, bursting egg yokes, the sensation of tearing blazing red flesh and sucking warm marrowbone goo, twirling swines on spits, fried swordfish steaks, tear salty oysters and garlic sodden crayfish tails. The rich aromas from an oil fired Aga stuffed with plucked, basted fowl…
‘Saf’ - 152-154 Curtain Rd., Shoreditch, London. EC2A. T. 020 7613 0007

Nearest Tube: Old St.

Printing Palates

A HACK from a national newspaper recently lured me to lunch at his brand new H.Q. All was not well within its wavy, gleaming glass walls. Apparently the canteen was in critical condition. An imported catering company “barely able to cope with the numbers” was making meals a misery. I dutifully cancelled ‘Claridges’and made my way to the temple to type…

Designed by Dixon Jones, architect behind Covent Garden’s Royal Opera House, it looks far too trendy for the nether regions of still seedy King’s Cross. The first thing I noticed was a line-up of letters on coloured sticks facing the pavement. If you move about they fall into place, spelling ‘The Guardian’. Apparently a night shifter naughtily rearranged these to spell ‘The Grauniad’, ‘Private Eye’s’ nickname for a paper once so riddled with unintentionally amusing typos that it allegedly misspelt its own masthead.

It is a magnificent space overall, fluid and glossy like an ambitious advertising agency, although certain design details are easily derided. There are the day-glow ‘think pods’ with their Big Brother chairs, and an interview room with a disconcerting poster of Al Pacino projecting his trademark, vacant look. In the ‘break-out’ areas thepassionate are expected to gesticulate. They can lie down in the ‘crash-out’ areas afterwards. And should staff wish to demonstrate their love for Mother Earth, they can make a date with the papier-mâché ‘pledge tree’, carpet-planted and shaped from yesterday’s news. Gazing at its ‘leaves’, inscribed with eco-friendly intentions, I must admit that I sensed my appetite slide away. Nearby an antique printing press is marooned, like a model of a mower on Astroturf. It is all distractingly playful.

A sense of enforced casualness continues into the canteen. We found a seat along a banquette swathed in Paul Smith stripes (which clashed with my shirt). Huge diffusing lampshades hover Christine Keeler chairs. Tables are low, the temperature high. Whilst the long corridor felt like an airport lounge, it is not planes that soar by, but occasional weary ‘putt-putting’ barges along a surprisingly idyllic canal.

A nutritionally intolerant individual masterminds the menu. It dangled, artfully, from a bulldog clip. It was the only printed item in the building which dared to shun The Guardian’s font We queued to collect ‘Chorizo, Pinto Bean, Coriander, Potato & Onion Broth’ which, it advised in red was ‘wheat, dairy & gluten free’, then ‘Lamb Tagine with Prunes & Almonds served with Lemon, Chilli & Coriander Couscous’- ‘dairy, wheat and gluten free’. It also described itself as vegan. A curious slip for a building bulging with proof-readers…

The soup had a sweaty sheen and a sticky texture. The processed, rudely pink chorizo had lost its spice long ago. Perhaps it is a cliché to say it, but I have seen better-looking sick. It was served with a stale sponge of focaccia which bore an uncanny resemblance to loft insulation.

The wine that, a few years back, used to be available at Farringdon Road, is now a distant memory. All that is left is a ‘hydrotap’ supplying free flowing rainwater harvested from the roof.
Prunes are not high on my list of ideal ingredients, particularly outside breakfast time. I actually found it quite a complex task to excavate any amidst fifteen or so of the grimmest infant carrots I have ever seen. The withered witches fingers were simultaneously cooked yet undercooked, stiff yet bendable and arrestingly repellent.The ‘free from’ couscous was acrid, like ‘Cif’ and the ‘vegan’ lamb arid. I would rather munch straw. The whole jumble was mercifully camouflaged by a powerful yet anonymous blend of spices.

Pudding was tolerable, thank goodness: a decent British crumble. This is a dish so retro that it is post-modern. The price of the fibrous forced rhubarb with golden, gummy custard was also classic (£1). The hack sensed we had accomplished something. “Not many people make it this far you know - only the older journalists and ex public school.”

Two silvery-haried veterans sat opposite: Jonathan Steele, roving foreign correspondent and Duncan Campbell, crime writer and senior correspondent. Exasperatingly they disproved the pudding theory, crunching through apples which they probably brought in anyway.

As we escaped, turning the corner towards the rotunda atrium, there was a lengthy line of people patiently waiting for one of three microwaves to ping free. This microwave meltdown was an indicting sight - people bringing in their own leftovers from home. Another microwave is on order to cope with demand.

Aside from the meal’s final, grudging concession to British cuisine, the food was oddly ambitious yet fatally un-motivating. It made airline food look glamorous. By being deliberately unpalatable, people were being prevented from loitering and forced back to their desks. A wretched irony considering that the papers produced within this otherwise extravagant building are without doubt the most food focussed…

For 'The London Word'

Tastefully Driven

Bob Farrand, the director of The Great Taste Awards on celebrating distinctive British flavours, a surprising connection with Robert Maxwell, and his appetising vision for 2012.

“In my experience there is still a gap between bloody awful food and food which is superb,” says Bob Farrand, founder of the U.K. Guild of Fine Food, now in its 24th year. “On boxing day my cousin and I went to Wincanton Races. It was a chilly but sparkling afternoon. I saw a trailer promising ‘gourmet burgers’ and gullibly gave in. In reality the patty was pasty, overcooked, painted in dismal sauce and garnished with frozen lettuce. Those frigid leaves brought a revolting new meaning to the term ‘iceberg’. How, I thought, could someone offer such an inedible, expensive insult to animal and customer in the year’s most extravagant season? Why weren’t people complaining? Faced with such fodder, I’m not surprised that Chirac denigrated the British diet!”

Bob realised his future was in food aged 14. He spent school holidays as an apprentice at an elegant provisions shop, applying Wiltshire cure to whole hams. Whilst he was happy to stay there, his parents harboured grander ambitions. “I was sent to study in London and ended up publishing catering journals.” In fact Bob had only one interruption from a career driven by taste. Taking inspiration from America, he founded a data retrieval firm. “Yes, it was an opportunity to make money fast, but it was fundamentally boring. Fortunately I received an offer from Robert Maxwell that was too good to refuse. That was just before he died, although I can assure you that the events were unrelated!”

Bob subsequently acquired an ailing title, the ‘Fine Food Digest’. Through its pages he aimed to draw attention to producers more artisan than accountant. Alongside he launched the Great Taste Awards, the ‘Oscars of British food’ and then the International Cheese Awards. “To get a snapshot of independent producers in the early ‘90’s, I mounted a ‘culinary census’. It revealed that, ravished by the last recession, only 1,000 delicatessens peppered the U.K. That was 16 years ago. Today we have 1,733 delis, 853 farm shops, not forgetting the big bang of farmers markets.”

Finding Flavour in the Crunch

I wondered whether some of those businesses might become victims of the current credit crunch. Bob believes that we should not let them. “I worry though. Whilst the French cannot upset farmers, we have a tendency to bail out inept banks before those who bake our bread. After the Second World War we built huge, distant farms whereas Europeans supported their local ones. In losing contact with the producers, I think we have also lost a sense of priority.”

Surely restaurants will be secure, seeing as dining out has become a national hobby? Bob believes that whilst we have “a thriving metropolitan food culture” there are too many impoverished eateries outside the cities. “Too often they fail to acknowledge the ingredients on their doorstep. And even when they do, for example choosing a local butcher, they need to be conscious of the grade of meat they are buying. This can mean the difference between a neighbouring farm’s free-range beef and a poorly matured version from afar.”

Bob’s cynicism of celebrity chefs is well known. Whilst he understands that Hugh Fearnely-Whittingstall “might be seen as elitist”, he would rather have him there, enthusiastically campaigning for better animal husbandry. “Mark Hix is our greatest ambassador, resuscitating our affection for unloved cuts and meat on the bone. My problem is with the likes of Jamie Oliver who takes a fortune encouraging people into the supermarket sheds. At the guild, we never cow-tow to the supermarkets.”

An Olympic Opportunity?

What of the future? Bob has a clear vision. “At the guild, we believe that, under the illumination of the Olympics, 2012 provides a golden opportunity to show the world that we are striving to develop a decent food culture. We need to establish a meeting ground between people like me, who are almost ‘anally’ focussed on food and those who are utterly dismissive. But it’s going to be a difficult journey. Look at Cheddar. The powers that be have worked hard to industrialise and standardise one of our most flavoursome foods. Why? A genuine farmhouse like ‘Qwickes’ 24 month mature confers the nuances of its origin and the seasons – what the French call ‘terroir’. Summer milk makes a full, buttery cheese of poise, whilst thin autumn grass known as ‘stracchino’ by the Italians provides rustic, hay notes. I once tried a version which hinted that the herd had escaped into a field of wild garlic! And it is beyond me why we try to recreate a cheese like Parmesan or Brie rather than promote our existing treasures. Perhaps it is a question of confidence.”

Bob is confident that the palate ultimately provides the proof of proper food. “I have watched people try a decent Dundee marmalade and say ‘Wow!’ People eat less of a good thing, too. Compared to those awful plasticated squares, you only need two thirds of a decent ham produced from pigs grown normally rather than hormonally. It is more nourishing, satisfying and fair.”

FURTHER LINK: Guild of Fine Food

For ‘Foodepedia’

Michelin Galaxy

Some thoughts on Michelin (Evening Standard).

Plates out of Patriotism

I REAPED the benefits by taking a Korean to a Korean restaurant. Almost from the start, bright, expressively flavoured appetisers or ‘Banchan’ found their way to our table for free. These included glossy, chewy, slightly syrupy ‘kong ja ban’ beans, Wotsit shaped, spicy rice cakes and fine, glassy noodles, which looked like elvers (baby eels). All authentic, according to my Korean envoy. I doubt a token English in an English restaurant would receive such generous treatment…

Finsbury Park’s ‘Dotori’ has been open fewer than five months. For some reason, I got it into my head that it takes its name from a small island lying midway between South Korea and Japan. Although a fanciful notion, no doubt spurred by an aperitif of ‘Soju’ (a coarse but compelling rice distillation capped at 20p/c) I like my story. It summarises the culinary intentions of a restaurant delivering both Korean and Japanese food. In reality it means ‘chestnut’. Korean’s traditionally describe something small as ‘dotori’, and having only seven tables, it seemed a suitable soubriquet.

Despite the ‘Asahi’ sponsored placemats, I got the impression that the Korean family who run it most enjoy coaxing the flavours of their homeland. The highlight was the ancient speciality: kimchi, or fermented, seasoned cabbage. Laden with vitamin C, and attributed an almost sacred status, when chilled, the moist, moreish, pistachio green leaves evoked savoury ice cream. I also tried ‘Bindaetteok’, a thick tortilla like pancake made with ‘mug bean’, more kimchi (Koreans scoff 40lbs of it per person, per year) and garlic. This hearty dish is apparently best enjoyed with rain...

My ‘Haemeltung’ (fish stew) arrived full of promise, still sizzling. Excavating its contents was a pleasure: all sorts of crustaceans and cuttlefish emerged from the depths of the thrillingly spiced, tofu topped granite basin. Rice was gluttonous. I was gluttonous. Brittle, dried, seaweed plates, darker then spinach, smelt of fish food and worked well when crimped against the rice.

A floral, fleshy aloe vera drink toned down the chilli, whilst a medicinal tasting, sweet plum potion provoked it. The latter also began to help me understand the hangul alphabet printed on the rectangular lampshades.

Whilst I am about as far from being an expert on culinary Korea as a dog is to becoming a domestic pet on those shores, I found the food first rate. Given the enduring flavours we sampled, it came as a surprise that the owner comes from a profession poles apart from cooking. He used to monitor production of L.C.D. televisions for ‘L.G.’ in the U.K. until British workers were deemed too slow. We finished a set every 11 seconds rather then the requisite 10.7. Freeloading loafers! L.G. since exported their fickle factory to Eastern Europe.

Apart from good taste, I learnt a couple of other facts over dinner. Apparently there were street riots when the U.S. pressed the country to accept its beef (Times). And, unlike the Japanese, Koreans consider it bizarre to replace chopsticks in their holsters at the end of a meal.

That seems less peculiar then the fact that this excellent, inexpensive chestnut (£74 for four heavyweights) doesn’t dare to go it alone and promote its core culinary genre. Maybe they are worried that by ditching the Asahi and order by picture sushi, potential customers will give this succulent corner of Korea the cold shoulder…

‘Dotori’ – 3 Stroud Green Rd., Finsbury Park, London. N4 2DF. T. 020 7263 3562
Nearest Tube: Finsbury Park

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My latest article for the Southwark News is here: ‘Keeping it Surreal on the Wild Coast’

The Golden Fleeced Flock

RUMOUR HAS it that ‘The Wolseley’ turns over £10million a year. A few days ago I swapped £20 for breakfast. It takes that every minute. On the matter of money, this site spent 70 years as a Barclays, although it is better known for how it started - as a showroom for Wolseley cars. The upmarket British marque was founded, fin de siècle, by Herbert Austin, then manager of the Wolseley sheep shearing company. Where there’s wool, there’s a way (and here, a golden fleeced flock too).

The sharp design details of the original 1920’s commission still make a grand impression: chandeliers, chinoiserie and symmetrical brass staircases. Propped by dark, doric columns, the vaulted ceiling rises 30ft. The floor is a bold stracciatella marble web. This is a temple with tables: Venetian, Florentine and Viennese all at once, nipped, tucked and preened by the same designers who redefined nearby ‘Fortnum & Mason’. One of the first things I saw (or smelt) was the altar of homemade pastries, a celebration of saucy sounding ‘Viennoisserie’.

The minds behind are Jeremy Corbin and Chris King, the restaurateur double-act best known for rejuvenating ‘Le Caprice’ and ‘The Ivy’, amongst other hot spots designated safe for celebrities. When The Wolseley opened in ‘03, The Ivy’s imported doorman was the face greeting the glitterati…

The open plan seating encourages that curious sport of ‘see and be seen’. Our almost miniature, irritatingly low table was unfortunately sited, however. Being opposite the busy bar dispense, I was forced to follow the staff’s albeit intriguing complaints about a bad tempered customer. They are a diverse looking bunch, by the way, but broadly happy. Waitresses, from svelte to bulging at the belt, wear air hostess style cravats; supervisors are shoehorned into tight (and very tight) suits. Whilst most zigzag like pinballs, service can be sloppy: you, like I, may need to prompt for forgotten orders.

I doubt many make the pilgrimage for the plates. Despite the location’s link with tyres, The Wolseley will never turn the head of the homme Michelin. It seems that the stars shun stars, preferring comforting food rather then culinary couture. The sartorial equivalent of the menu (Salt Beef Sandwich, Leeks Vinaigrette) could be a tastefully worn, Saville suit (patched at the elbows). It might be worth pointing out that I once cancelled a booking at another Corbin and King venture, ‘St. Alban’ (Regent St.). I didn’t know the pedigree of the proprietors, and dare I say it, the menu looked dull at face value.

I cannot resent pastries. My tall, beeswax flavoured Cannelé Bordelaise looked like it had been jauntily shaped in a jelly mould. It came straight from the oven with a chewy, chocolate like crust and a centre which suggested dense panettone. Having made no masochistic New Year’s resolutions, I greedily rinsed this with ‘The Wolseley Imperial’ (bitter mandarin peel liqueur, cognac, double espresso, hot milk, chocolate powder layered with whipped cream). It tasted like a luxurious, liquidised Chocolate Orange. I chased this with a shot of fresh, bright, bitty orange juice.

To really set me up for the day I shunned the sordid sounding, lavishly priced Caviar Omelette (£52.50) in favour of a snug dish: Fried Haggis with conjoined Duck Eggs on fried toast. When burst, the large, molten, mustard coloured yokes stickily combined with the haggis. Moistly fatty, peppery, with notes of sweet spice in the finish, the pluck was minced into an earthy softness. A battered, highly burnished silver pot of lean Darjeeling cleansed with its gentle aromas of Muscat grapes. Feminine without that overwhelming aroma of, for example, Earl Grey, which for me is like drinking perfume.

My companion met ‘Arnold Bennett’ for the first time. An opulently creamy, Gruyère softened, smoked haddock studded eggy creation, named in honour of a long-term writer in residence at ‘The Savoy’. How ironic that his eponymous omelette outshines his novels. A transparent pot of what looked like a whole mint plant, including stalks, smelt brisk and brought colour to our table.

I rarely bother with a big breakfast. And half an hour after the fork hit the plate for the final time, I remembered why. Call it another type of morning sickness. As blood hurtled to my stomach to break down the early bombardment of artery addlingly rich food, a kind of fry-provoked nausea begun.

As the large station like clock ticked its way towards 11:30, I spied the first frosty martini triangle take to a tray. Brightening linen landed on bare tables. Breakfast would become lunch, then tea and dinner until midnight. In excess of 1,000 famous, infamous and anonymous faces fed and watered.

Not content with having crafted several restaurants which are as much household names as their clientele, Corbin and King harbour seriously lofty ambitions. In October it was announced that they would be installing eateries over 13,000 square feet of the city’s unimaginatively titled, 288m tall ‘Pinnacle’ tower (under construction). I prefer its nickname, the ‘Helter Skelter’. There is also speculation about a co-venture in New York with ‘Vanity Fair’ editor, Graydon Carter.

The original autos failed to sell. The Barclays bank transferred its funds elsewhere. But even amidst economic uncertainties, it becomes ever harder to book a space in Corbin and King’s Mayfair embassy of carefully cultivated café society.

*

The Wolseley operates zero tolerance on photography, presumably to prevent paparazzi from congesting the reservations book. I contacted their head office to seek stills - to no avail. I am forced therefore to use my own, furtively snapped on a phone...

‘The Wolseley’ - 160 Piccadilly, Mayfair, London. W1J. T. 020 7499 6996

Nearest Tube: Green Park

'Bishopsgate Tower' by Will Fox

Thinking Silver, Drinking Gold

I SHOULD have been in Aspen, Colorado. My services as a sommelier were originally required for a private new year’s eve shebang. I would have travelled with an almost empty case, in eager expectation of carrying home gargantuan gratuities. There was a time when the average house price topped $6 million in that former silver mining camp turned skiers playground. Unfortunately, the draining credit crunch rendered me obsolete.

What would I do to salve the pain of broken promise? All too often, my Hogmanay experience has been an impoverishly organised, miserable scenario spent with a sweating cast of too many of the wrong characters. As regular readers will know, I would gladly hibernate within the pampering acme of London’s hotels. Impressive old piles with clubby lounges, intimate bars, palatial dining rooms and gracious service. Almost at the last minute, ‘lastminute.com’ drew my attention to The Ritz’s ‘Rivoli Bar’. An ideal venue to gesture goodbye to hectic ’08…

Named after the boutique-lined Rue de Rivoli in Paris, which in turn takes its title from Napoleon’s victorious battle, the latest incarnation is inspired by the interior of an Orient Express Pullman coach. Years ago, I had a bumpy lunch aboard one of these gleaming trains in the Yorkshire Dales. There is a likeness in the grand, banded blend of camphor and satinwood, pearlescent Lalique plates, glowing alabaster vases and domes brushed in gold leaf (of which, more later). A few of the deeply cushioned chairs are incongruously swathed in leopard print. The Ritz lion is impressed everywhere.

This has always been a grippingly expensive venue. That much is predictable. Mineral water will leave you gasping at £5.50, although I discovered complimentary bottles and glasses in the cloakroom, should you feel defiant. The price of an espresso will invigorate more than the caffeine (£6). The most basic, but almost regally wrapped Champagne will render you giddy (£70). For those endowed with particularly obese wallets, the signature César Ritz cocktail, named in honour of the hotel’s founder and featuring a blend of cognac dating from 1802, weighs in at £120. Distilling can be thrilling...

In contrast, a venue like the nearby ‘5th Floor’ at the top of ‘Simpson’s’ (now ‘Waterstones’) has all the glamour of a sixth form common room but stridently charges a surprising £2 for a glass of what may well be the acqua di commune. At least The Ritz doesn’t make pretend to be something it is not.

Our evening included three courses of canapés, a bottle of Ritz Champagne and a midnight cocktail. I must say that although elfin-sized, the nibbles were excellent. The highlights: warm brioche croûte with densely perfumed wild mushroom and specks of Périgord truffle, and a croustade of runny, golden-yoked boiled quail’s egg. To follow, an elevated, polished silver disc of ‘mignardises’ (chocolates painted with gold, pastry sandwiches, lubricious jellies and fibrous nougat).

Just before midnight a full brass band (of 25 players) trumpeted their way from the the tea time, Palm Court into the Belle Époque dining room. As clock hands married at midnight, a Scotch piper, who has been in the role for ten years cut the air with ‘Auld Langs Ayne’. It was amusing to see the bow ties try to sing along past verse one. Meanwhile, copper coloured fireworks detonated in Green Park.

Back in the bar, amongst wisps of party popper phosphorus, an illuminated line of well-timed cocktails looked more fetching than 50 customers in Colorado. They contained the ‘Ritz 100’, launched in ‘06 to mark the ‘…100th year as the finest hotel in the world.’ Little lily pads of gold leaf decadently decorated this rich, mesmerising collage of 42 Below, Grand Marnier, Peach Liqueur, bubbles, brown sugar and bitters.

Financially - and only financially - we were probably the poorest guests in the building. But sipping Champagne saucers laced with beautiful, but tasteless 24 carat flakes (which believe it or not have an e-number – 175) we felt wealthy for a while.

As others departed, I took the opportunity to tipsily (but gently) tinkle the keys of the grand piano.

If I could only learn to extinguish my writing ambitions, instead installing myself amongst office furniture, I might afford to come here more often...

‘Rivoli Bar’ at The Ritz - 150 Piccadilly, London, W1J. T. 020 7493 8181
Nearest Tube: Green Park