On sushi's roll of honour

Zuma of Knightsbridge opened with a bang a couple of years ago. Not so much a bang as a punch, when Russell Crowe took his Gladiator fame a little too far and enthusiastically belted some fellow guests. Still, all publicity helps, as they say. But does it still pack a punch today?

Before we even stepped into the restaurant, which is discreetly tucked away behind a building site, I was delighted to see the Valet Parking sign. No clamping paranoia, no trying to squeeze the armoured car into a Smart car-sized gap, no endless driving in circles.

This is a massive plus and reminded me of one of the best episodes of The Simpsons, when Homer discovers he loves sushi and eats everything on the menu including the poisonous Puffer fish that leaves him with just 24 hours to live. Recognising a look in my eyes as a sign of things to come, my lovely wife Kaz announced: "It doesn't matter where you are, you can never control yourself."

The first thing that hits you as you enter Zuma on a Saturday night is the hustle and bustle of the clientele at the square bar by the door. It has the feel of one of those massive American-style casino hotels you find in the Virgin Islands. Before we'd even ordered, the guy on the next table had loudly announced to his huge-breasted date that he thought "this place has more buzz than Nobu". Well, in terms of volume, it had more buzz than Heathrow.

Thankfully, the anticipation of the food managed to blot out the noise. The service was quick and attentive but slightly inaccurate in describing the starters as small. I'm blaming the waiters, but the fact is I ordered far too much.

We doubled up on the starters of delicious soft-shell crab and sesame spinach which was too creamy and a far cry from the plain but compulsory ohitashi, a sort of sautéed seaweed, of the backstreet sushi merchants I love.

It's been a long time since I've been anywhere where blazers, no hair and an abundance of black polo necks are in vogue. I felt guilty for having curls and am still confused as to why men over 35 want to copy David Beckham as a fashion icon.

Two tables away a giant in his forties was sporting a thick woollen beanie cap - at 9pm on a July night. Elsewhere blazers and baseball hats abounded while ripped jeans rested on shiny brogues. Fashionwise, it was like a departure lounge to hell.

But we were here to eat, not judge others' taste, and I must admit the sushi was fantastic. The temperature of the tamago - a rolled, sweet omelette - was colder than my wife's wine, which is something I enjoyed. The ikura (salmon roe) was so tasty you might imagine each egg had been hand-picked.

But as the noise level picked up, I started to understand why Russell Crowe had felt compelled to chin someone, though why he lunged at just one person beats me. There's a certain obnoxious, arrogant quality to the diners here and there were moments when it felt like I was at a negotiating table in the Middle East, as Arabic and American voices rolled over from the bar.