Not a bhaji in sight

We live in a new era of conspicuous consumption and trumping. Old English restraint has been put aside - witness the rash of red Ferraris and wedges of 4WD Porsches on the streets of London.

Everything has to be faster, flashier and bigger than the next man's; an attitude that starts in the playground and continues until well past Hugh Hefner's Viagra-popping age. Something only has worth if you can brag about it, or show it off. We men have always been a competitive bunch.

One area where City boys and lads-about-town have always shown off is in the curry house, accepting an incautious dare to eat the hottest curry on the menu (Phall), or to drink their way through vats of accompanying overgassed lager. It's a contest and bonding experience all rolled into one. So the prospect of getting together an Aussie banker friend and an opinionated football commentator and 'going for a curry' sounded like a recipe for a perfect male trumping fest.

The Painted Heron doesn't sound like your average curry house, and neither does it look like one. For a start, it's in one of Chelsea's most famous streets, and almost impossible to reach by public transport. On the night I went for dinner, finding a taxi was like searching for the Holy Grail, and I had to walk the entire length of the King's Road before I saw a welcoming yellow light - past all those tiny Japanese girls wearing tutus with hefty trainers (do they really believe that's a good look?).

The taxi driver had heard of and approved of the Heron. His mate eats there. This was a promising, and surprising, recommendation, since I'd been told that the restaurant was more likely to be frequented by Jemina Khan and Hugh Grant (presumably in an auspicious stage of their relationship).

No sign of the famous pingpong couple as I walked in, but there were plenty of elegant, cashmere-clad Chelsea-ites sitting at tables bearing acres of crisp, white linen. This understated room was as up-market as it gets - lit softly enough to disguise age but still bright enough to read the menu without scowling. Perfect.

I'd had an exhausting week with far too much travel, including an overnighter to Paris, which coincided with an English rugby game, so the city was full of the people I spend my life avoiding. I even spotted Boris Johnson's father in a restaurant and found myself marvelling at the ubiquitous presence of this untidily-thatched family.

The Aussie and the commentator were waiting at the table and talk quickly turned to elections.

No, not ours, but the forthcoming Australian ballot and the very real possibility that John Howard might lose his seat. But so much of politics is conjecture, therefore pointless, that I concentrated on my menu, which was the most extraordinary I'd ever seen. It reads as if someone had set the chef a challenge to come up with the most unlikely combination of ingredients and then put them together.

Ostrich with rhubarb. Lamb tikka and rose petals. Blue swimmer crab meat. If you're a traditionalist who always plumps for a korma and naan, this is not the place for you.

The Aussie is a man who has grown up in a culture that boasts of eating witchetty grubs, so he had no problem polishing off his ostrich starter, which he said was as deliciously lean as Angelina Jolie. The commentator ate giant tiger prawns and then complained in a rather unmannish way about the lack of a finger bowl.