Too posh for nosh

I hesitated nervously at the entrance: all around me, impossibly glamorous birds of paradise shimmered and preened in their Miu Miu and Roberto Cavalli. Was that Tara over there? And wasn't that Sophie, you know, from 'I'm A Celebrity...'?

With my Zara and Topshop, I knew I couldn't compete. Then I saw him. Jacobi. Even his name reeked of a different world, a world of polo-playing aristocrats and Italian princes, of careers as 'socialite' and never having to worry about the gas bill. Lumpy proletarian that I am, could I ever dream he might notice me?

Sorry. Truly sorry. But there's something about this new Knightsbridge Japanese that brings out my frustrated inner Jilly Cooper. La Cooper, queen of her craft, has already tackled the worlds of sport, opera, TV and art - if she's looking for new inspiration, she should cast an eye over Nozomi. It's positively infested with characters I thought lived only within her pages.

First, you've got the lowering, swarthy presence of Marios George (or Georgallides), the textbook mysterious entrepreneur, late of notorious posho copping-off shop Attica, and now owner of Nozomi. This is a chap who is no stranger to ostentatious accessories.

Then there are his cohorts Max della Torre e Tasso - that's Prince Max, actually - and of course Jacobi, scion of aristocrats, polo player, pal of Prince William, No.7 on a much-quoted list of eligible bachelors and, allegedly, the subject of a catfight between Kate Moss and Jade Jagger. Yeah, right. I got all this from Googling him, an exhausting task since his full name is Jacobi

Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe. Between the three of them, they are a posh totty charm offensive, simply oozing schmooze. Sadly, though, not in my direction.

We made the mistake of arriving at 7.30pm to an empty restaurant (the totty teeters in post-9pm) and asking for a clearly coveted corner table. If I'd requested Prince Max's hand in marriage, I couldn't have been met with more frosty derision. Only the intercession of a fabulously Bond villain-esque ma"tre d' saved us from crippling embarrassment: well, that and about half a pint of flawless Grey Goose Martini - cocktail measures are recklessly devil-maycare.

Yes, anyway, the food. You know, I'm tempted not to bother. Like Cipriani, Nozomi isn't really about eating, it's about delivering a massive posing and table-hopping opportunity. It is, of course, Nobuish; the two main chefs met at that most hallowed magnet for carbphobic Heat-fodder.

Selections are headed up hatusara and omo sara (nope, me neither - nor did our waitress). We had just-seared smoked lamb tataki on a mush of avocado, its billed aromatics - cherry chip, apple, thyme - made no impact whatsoever. Quite nice. Then came a drab little crab shumai, a solid (Chinese) open dumpling not a patch on Yauatcha's. But it was quite nice, too.

Quite nice also was some tempura'd lobster: the batter pleasantly dry and crunchy, a soy broth profoundly savoury. And a blameless piece of sea bream; and some gohan rice, cooked in a clay pot with (invisible) scallops and featuring the correct crust at the base of the dish.