Trust me, the Ritz is London's bestrestaurant

To whom we turn in moments of gloom and glory can be instructive, a filter of our truest friends. I've fallen out with the Ritz a couple of times, including once after a visit to the bar which didn’t warrant a review (“But you said it was lovely!” they said.

- DAVID ELLIS

“Yes,” I replied. “But I also apologised when I was run over. Mum’s a stickler for manners.”) No matter. We could have a stand-up row and the Ritz would forever be the restaurant I chose when wanting consolation or celebration. So when my partner Twiggy agreed to marry me, with no obvious signs of head injury, it was here that was booked.

It’s not what you’d call subtle, being a neo-baroque chamber of pink and gilt. I imagine the designers meant to conjure a room Louis XIV might feel at home in, though there’s every chance they were just big into strawberry Angel Delight. I guess we’ll never know. It is cartoonishly grand, what children might picture when first hearing about fine-dining (the truth being blander, greyer, involving more being talked at). In that way a meal here is always an occasion, as though the opulence demands it.