The last supper

Not since an obscure Galilean carpenter's son held a little dinner for a dozen close friends almost 2,000 years ago has there been a Last Supper like it. It is a subject worthy of the talents of a latter-day Da Vinci. Yesterday evening Messrs Jeremy King and Chris Corbin presided over their Last Supper at The Ivy and Le Caprice. Today, after the final lunchtime espresso has been served and the last Black Amex has been swiped, the curtain will come down on one of the longest-running performances in the showbiz world of West-End restaurants.

For the past 19 years Jeremy King, tall dark and thoughtful, and Chris Corbin, not so tall, not so thoughtful and as a result rather more cheerful, have been the Rolls and Royce of London gastronomy.

Critical and popular successes, their two restaurants, Le Caprice and The Ivy, have set the standards by which every West-End restaurant is judged. Two years ago, having just opened a third restaurant called J Sheekey, King and Corbin sold their restaurants to the Belgo Group, which also owns Mogens Tholstrup's restaurants. Now, this very afternoon, after lunch, they walk away from the empire that they have spent the past two decades building.

There was a rumour, denied by Chris Corbin, that the two men were poised to take over Simpsons-in-the-Strand. All Chris Corbin will say about the future for him and King is: "We will abandon our business relationship and resume our friendship. The plan is no plans." They will however remain as non-executive directors, but the days of either King or Corbin spending every lunch and dinner walking through their restaurants massaging egos, complimenting Joan Collins on her youthful radiance or Sir Elton John on his luxuriant hairstyle are over.

King and Corbin are two of the most secretive, enigmatic characters in the restaurant trade, a field not otherwise known for the reticence of its protagonists. They are gastronomy's answer to the reclusive Barclay brothers.

The iconic, cult status of their restaurants is one of the more remarkable aspects of fashionable life in London of the past 10 years. A table at The Ivy or Le Caprice says more about you than any number of Bentley Azures or Fendi baguettes ever could. There are many more expensive restaurants in London, there are many more snooty restaurants in London, and between them The Ivy and Le Caprice have precisely no Michelin stars, yet they are and have been for some time the most difficult restaurants to get into. It is probably safe to say that we live in a classless society today. These days Society is divided very simply: between those who can get a table at The Ivy and Le Caprice this side of Christmas and those who can't. (The Ivy's four receptionists handle about 1,000 calls a day; the situation at Le Caprice is not as ridiculous, in that only three people work the phones there.)

In recent years anything that has happened has tended to happen at Le Caprice or The Ivy. The Princess of Wales used to eat lunch at Le Caprice, and Posh Spice was photographed looking skeletal at The Ivy. I have seen the Chancellor of the Exchequer of the day lunching with Lord Archer at Le Caprice and Charles Kennedy being lunched at The Ivy. When Vanity Fair's Graydon Carter is in town, Cond? Nast's Nicholas Coleridge takes him for lunch at Le Caprice, and after Nicole had finished stripping in The Blue Room she and Tom repaired for a late supper at The Ivy almost every night.

The question is what happens tonight, when the first pre-theatre diners turn up at 5.30 pm. Will there be an Ivy and a Caprice post King and Corbin?

The two men who have the unenviable task of following King and Corbin are a Bolivian called Jesus and a south London boy called Mitchell. Between them they have 50 years of experience in the restaurant business in the West End. If you are a regular at Le Caprice and The Ivy you will already be on first-name terms with both of them and perhaps one or two of their colleagues, perhaps executive chef Mark Hix and Jesus's Orson Welles-like sidekick, the pathologically good natured Angelo.

On Wednesday, when I swung by The Ivy, Mitch was just guiding Cameron (Sir Cameron MacIntosh to you and me) to his table. Had you been at Le Caprice on Tuesday evening, you would have seen Jesus crouched next to Peter Blake, engrossed in a discussion about the Apocalypse show at the Royal Academy.