Pastures new for The Ivy league

This review was published in September 2000.

Eras end all the time, always have, always will, and this autumn on West Street another era will be brought to a close as Jeremy King and Chris Corbin retire from their stewardship of The Ivy.

This is a seismic event in the recent history of eating in London. The Ivy was the London restaurant of the Nineties. It has redefined our notions of what a fashionable restaurant is. In the years BI (Before the Ivy) the restaurant world, like the class system, was strictly segregated. The sort of people we used to call the Establishment went to the Savoy Grill. Stars went into rehab or into San Lorenzo. Media people, admen and so on went somewhere in Soho like L'Escargot. Footballers went to the pub.

Now they all go to The Ivy. If Kate Moss has a new hairstyle to unveil, how and where better to launch it than to the paparazzi outside? If Victoria Beckham wants to show just how much she is eating, then there is nowhere else to be seen tucking in than at The Ivy. If Sir Elton wants to give his image an airing in Central London, The Ivy is the place. If Charles Kennedy wants to lunch a senior political hack, The Ivy is the natural choice: chic yet safe.

Somehow I managed to secure one of the smart tables along the wall on the left as you walk in. I think that my preferential seating might have had something to do with my companion: the next editor of the Financial Times. Then again, it might have had something to do with my calling Chris Corbin on his mobile phone and threatening to take him, his family, their tennis racquets and their pet guinea pigs hostage unless he got me the finest table known to man for dinner at 9pm.

The tables adjacent to me included Cilla Black, Trevor Nunn, Zaha Hadid and that weather vane of contemporary fashion, a man I am privileged to call a fellow columnist on this magazine, Nicky Haslam. Thus within a few feet of each other were seated one of showbiz's true aristocrats, one of the nation's chief luvvies, the trendiest architect in the world, 'Sir' Nicky and the next editor of the FT. Not bad for a Tuesday in the depths of August.

I am sure there were other even more fashionable people dotted about, but I am a notoriously poor star-spotter. Besides, after I had stood up, waved my arms and shouted 'Haslam in the House' a few times, I thought I had better keep a low profile. So apart from shouts of 'Oi, Trev!' to Lord Nunn and 'Love the tent' to Dame Zaha, I settled down to my potted shrimps and fishcake - I never eat anything else here. It was, as ever, exemplary.

That is another thing about The Ivy: it is a sacred cow. You seldom hear a bad word about the food and it appears on everyone's list of favourite restaurants. I don't think anyone ever says or writes anything uncomplimentary about the place because they are afraid that they will never be allowed back. To be able to get a table here takes years of toil and tireless effort. Forget getting your kid into Eton, yourself a knighthood and a camel through the eye of a needle. For many it is the crowning moment of their career, nay their lives, to be accepted for a table at The Ivy, however humble. 'Table for two at nine o'clock, sir. Well, sir, as it's you, I can squeeze you into one of the urinals at seven, but you will have to be out by 7.30.'