Look who's come to dinner

This review was first published in January 2001

Serious starspotters kill for a table at Nobu. As followers of tabloid, glossy and Hello! know, the place is a full-on PFR, or Perennially Fashionable Restaurant.

Surveying the world from its first-storey eyrie at the Metropolitan Hotel, Nobu has always basked in that coveted category entitled: "Madly popular place patronised by major league stars long after its five minutes should have fizzled". This it has managed with a palatable Asian-fusion menu and a handy drip-feed of class-A celebs from the Met Bar downstairs. If you thought pushing a camel through a needle was tricky, trying getting into Nobu on a Saturday night.

I'd managed to wangle a table for two through contacts, for the fashionably late Saturday-night hour of nine. And so it was that my dinner date Ashley and I found ourselves standing gazing at a big V beside the words Elle Macpherson on the seat plan. VIP Elle - a crying, walking, sleeping, talking living supermodel for company! - and so we trailed a willowy waiter to the table.

We keenly scanned the scene but ... oh well, no Elle. Of course the night was young, and the pale-wood surrounds reverberated to a menagerie of international accents. Loud tables snorted whole lines of art-directed sushi arrangements, raising designer lagers to pursed lips and erupting into lively debate over key issues of the day, like shopping. A waiter with menus wafted over like a lamp genie and left with a request for house fizz (£36) and mineral water (£3). Now, where was Elle?

After a while, a sparkling-water-bearing young lady of singular demeanour appeared. Was she getting into character for a Brecht audition, or on secondment from Biguns Ribs? Either way, our chorused "Good evening!" failed to stir an eyebrow. But no matter, we had drinks. And - after about 20 minutes - the atmosphere crackled like static before a storm. Elle - real VIP Elle - swept in, unfussily dressed, pouring herself into a seat at an empty table. The head-swivelling in the room rivalled Centre Court.

Our shared starter of tempura shrimp (£4.50) - moreish scampi-deluxe - arrived, followed by Naomi Campbell in a black backless gown. Heads this time mimicked Linda Blair's in The Exorcist, as Nay twinkled over to Elle - now with a circle of doting male friends - and sank onto a seat, seemingly dragging every Nobu staff member helplessly in her wake.

Such a Marie Celeste desertion rather rankled, especially as by now hunger pangs were becoming evident. Extensive horizon scanning for black cod with miso (£19.50) and wasabi beef (£16.50) were in vain. After half an hour or so, the fish was finally plonked in the middle of the table. The cow was evidently still grazing, for we waited, then explained, then waited ... then decided to divvy up the cod. At which point, of course, the beef limped in, and we were alone again.

Strangely enough for two super-scrutinised supermodels, Naomi and Elle didn't seem to Vant To Be Alone. Au contraire, they seemed bent on attention as they clapped and brayed with the best of their blokey entourage.

Our dinner service had been a debacle but, at 60 minutes (sans pud), a brief one, and at least we had ringside seats for the supermodel show. Summoning more drinks we sat back to watch the circus. At which point a giant thunderbolt descended from on high. "I'm sorry but this table is booked," which felt to us remarkably like, "We'd like to double our money before midnight, would you like to push off?"

Steady on now - no one had told us about this. Why, even our neighbours, who'd been up to their necks in salady starter when we sat down, were still doing pud when our axe fell. Much invective was issued, and the maitre d' summoned. We ranted and ranted till they recanted and promised complimentary champers and pud. After an excruciating eternity, no pud, or drink, was forthcoming and we knew it was time to go.

They did the honourable thing and took all booze off the bill. Then added two gin and tonics (£20-ish) plus 12.5 per cent service, both of which we found lurking on the receipt while descending in the lift. The former, had it been intentional, I might have construed as initiative. The latter simply breached trades descriptions. Next time I want fashion food I'll do salad, sofa and Shopping Channel instead.