More paunch than pout

If The Ritz on Piccadilly wasn't already ingrained upon our minds as a haven of smart, civilised exclusivity, then the night Prince Charles was snapped emerging with his would-be wife Camilla did the job.

It confirms the point that Irving Berlin made in 1928 (and you may sing along): 'Now if you're blue and you don't know where to go, why don't you go where fashion sits - puttin' on the ritz.'

So my wife Laura and I arrived, a divorce lawyer friend in tow in case things got uncivilised. He had been stood up for dinner earlier, so it was only fair that we perk him up by dragging him to The Ritz restaurant.

To be honest, Irving Berlin might have been a little disappointed by our fellow diners. The place was less than half full, and where fashion might have been sitting there was more paunch than pout. Small family groups had gathered for special occasions. One young man was splashing out on his girlfriend's birthday.

But such is the restaurant's design - the spacing of tables, the flattering lighting - and so well cosseted are you by the staff that other people become immaterial. Perfect for Laura and me to absorb ourselves in the divorce lawyer's tales of family break-ups, epic marital rows and feuds - all told with an eager relish. His stories were worthy of The Firm itself.

The room is classical, gilded, ornate. Two pink marble columns flank the entrance. Garlands of laurel wreaths dress the image of the sky on the ceiling. On one side, from floor to ceiling, the wall is made up entirely of panelled mirror. There are gold statues and a quartet plays Viennese music.

But you have to pay for this Thirties decadence. Starters are priced from £20 and main courses mostly approach £40. And that's not the only hazard. It's The Ritz, so of course you start with champagne, and of course - no matter how stuffed - you order the crêpe suzette, a theatrical drama that unravels in blazing wonderment on a trolley at the table, and of course you go for some stickies afterwards, in this case Calvados (a delicious and potent Château du Breuil at a modest £11 a glass).

The environment and staff simply will you to do these things in an almost telepathic way. The service, by a team whose hierarchy dictates whether they wear white jacket (most junior), white tie (more senior), black jacket (most
senior), is faultless. The sommelier does what the best sommeliers do, which is to take your wine suggestion, consider it, gently reject it before offering a wine of equal value, of greater interest and a better match for your food.

Indeed his choice was a great match for the beef wellington that I was sharing with the divorce lawyer. And we were budgeting, you see, because when you share a beef wellington at The Ritz it's £78 for two people, and that's a couple of quid below the average for a main course. Laura, meanwhile, had ordered the fillet of turbot (£39). It was 'fine', she said. 'A bit over-cooked but all right.' Our beef wellington was also absolutely fine, the meat perfectly medium-rare, the pastry moving to soggy.

The beef wellington had followed my creamy terrine of foie gras, which I had with a lovely, refreshing glass of Gewürztraminer, glugged as my wife and I listened to more tales of infidelity and alimony from the divorce lawyer. Their starters of six oysters (the wife) and crab salad (the lawyer) were perfectly all right. 'The ice around the oysters is melting,' said Laura. 'My crab's a bit watery,' said the lawyer.