Pétrus is a winner

Exclusive has a wealth of meaning. For journalists, it's a great scoop. For women, it's buying a dress you won't see anybody else wearing at a party. In restaurant speak, it usually means you can't get a table at short notice unless you're very rich or very famous. A kind of social ring-fencing, which only adds to the allure of the destination.

The most exclusive restaurant I've ever eaten in was L'Ambroisie, situated in the imposing splendour of the Place des Vosges in Paris. It's one of those very grand Parisian buildings that have a unique way of combining elegance and sophistication. I remember the barely-contained glee of my French foodie pal as he surveyed the menu, and my own mounting sense of expectation of being about to sample pretty amazing cooking.

Unfortunately, I was wearing a pair of brandnew Dior shoes that I'd known were a size too small when I'd bought them, but were so exquisite I had to have them. Exquisite indeed: they were killing me. There is little worse than trying to enjoy three-star food with crushed feet.

In the end I took them off and carried them out like a doggy bag at the end of the evening, but nobody batted an eyelid. It's one of those delicious ironies that behaviour that would be frowned upon in a works canteen can be carried off as mild eccentricity in a more up-market setting.

This sort of thing can, of course, become anecdotal, and you could imagine it featuring in one of those breathless Isabella Blow-type obituaries ('he always used to take off his shoes in restaurants!').

If exclusivity can be defined by the inability to get a table at short notice, then one of the thoroughbreds in Gordon Ramsay's stable looks set to be a winner. It's pretty much booked out most of the time.

And if you're a last-minute merchant, you'll probably have to be content to eat dinner at 10.30pm or lunch after two.

I'm a huge fan of Ramsay's best, and his success needs no documentation, but there are mutterings in the restaurant guides that he is spreading himself a little thinly. Did you see him photographed recently with Gordon Brown and their respective wives in a cosy foursome? The Prime Minister (who looks more like a Thunderbird puppet with every passing day) was beaming, but his scar-faced namesake looked positively anxious. Is he exhausted by his many restaurants, the TV shows and adverts or is he simply worried that arch-rival Marco Pierre White is gaining the edge on him?

Pétrus is, of course, named after the wine considered to be Bordeaux's finest, and this is reflected in the décor. The interior is rich and glowing and garnet-coloured. Here too, you'll be able to catch a couple of Michelin stars, and as soon as you step inside you realise you're in a proper restaurant.

If you were eating your last meal on earth, Pétrus would be on the list. It has everything. So many restaurants (particularly at lunchtime) feel a bit like up-market cafés, but this is the real thing. Service, style and sumptuous food. Somewhere to while away an afternoon while legions of unobtrusive staff cater to whims you didn't realise you had.