The place for everyone

In our shopaholic global community there are certain London stores that are superstars. Places where tourists flock because they epitomise everything that is essentially English. And where the natives drift occasionally when they want an unashamed dose of nostalgia and a taste of style, which is far more intangible.

Fortnum & Mason is one of those shops that I've always considered to be synonymous with style. Last year the store celebrated its 300th birthday with a expensive face-lift.

A face-lift? I confess that a shudder ran through me since we all know how hit and miss they can be. All the money in the world didn't do Faye Dunaway any favours, did it?

But I'd had a hankering for a proper English tea for ages and decided to visit the famous Piccadilly landmark to see for myself if the work had been successful or whether there were noticeable scars.

Afternoon tea used to be a fashionable meal. In 1840 a greedy Duchess of Bedford decided that the gap between lunch and dinner was too long and demanded that food be brought to her boudoir. The idea took off, her friends joined in and the repast snowballed to become a sickly feast, still eaten on cruise ships and in Agatha Christie books.

It's a meal that has seen something of a rebirth both in New York and London in the last ten years. Thankfully though, a proposed chain of high-street tea bars along the lines of coffee shops was an idea that never caught on. I'm not surprised. There is an elegance and individuality about teatime that mocks the whole ghastly concept of chain eating.

Close your eyes and it's easy to imagine the ritual. The chinking of fine china. Teeny-weeny sandwiches and proper pastries served on one of those three-tiered cake stands. All eaten with small, self-conscious mouthfuls to the background sound of a smiling pianist tinkling away at the ivories.

The only trouble with reality is that it rarely matches up to the power of our imagination.

I used to visit Fortnum's a lot when I worked at the Palace. I'd stop off to buy a last-minute expensive treat from the food hall as an apology to Guy for all the antisocial hours I was working. But it's been ages since I've eaten there.

The St James's Restaurant on the fourth-floor is vast - an impressive oasis of a space, dotted with intimate little clusters of seating. To my delight there was a pianist and linen-covered tables providing a pristine white background for the famous turquoise-coloured china. With a sigh, I sank into one of the sofas, feeling the stress of the outside world ebb away.

Mind you, I was absolutely ravenous since I'd starved all day in order to treat myself to the kind of cholesterol-caked goodies I usually try to avoid.