Zafferano is worth every penny

Money. It makes the world go round but can't buy you love, depending on which song you happen to be listening to at the time. Which must mean there are a lot of dizzy and wistful people living in Knightsbridge. I'd forgotten just how pampered and wealthy this part of London was - mainly because I haven't been here by day for a long time.

By night, the cloak of darkness confers a certain meritocracy on cities. If a venue is good, then it doesn't matter if it's in Hackney or Hampstead.

By day, it's different. The brightness of early spring is merciless: under its cruel spotlight it's easy to assess the value of what we're wearing; what we're worth.

Knightsbridge is very much that kind of place. This is the land of stuccoed embassies, big-name designer shops and little dogs. Cars with tinted windows, burly-looking minders in shades, and sleek, fur-swathed women with wind-tunnel faces.

I was lunching at Zafferano, a restaurant that is now famous on two counts: it has a Michelin star and was recently in the news for innocently flogging an allegedly fake bottle of Pétrus to a customer. The wine in question cost £18,000. Gulp. Can any drink ever be worth £250 a mouthful? Answers on a postcard, please.

The flower-filled room at Zafferano is deceptively large and there are three distinctly different areas. The front part has a slightly retro, business-lunch composition - all men, with not a woman in sight. I was shown into the softer, more bistro-like area at the back, with its huge mirror and slatted views on to the street.

Here there's a more eclectic assortment of customer. Three French women pushing their food around. An elegant group of South Americans who seemed to be celebrating something. A rock star with a gushing aide. And a table with four blonde English women of a certain age who were like the very best type of stem ginger - perfectly preserved.

I was meeting a friend from Texas who's a member of ABH - America's fastest-growing political party (Anyone But Hillary) - and she was instantly charmed by the flowers ('just gorgeous') and the bread ('divine'). And it was. Sage bread baked on the premises every morning.

We discussed the election. Their election, that is. That's all anyone ever discusses: what will we talk about once November has gone? We decided that the new intake of world leaders has the potential to be very exciting and that the current incumbents over here were past their sell-by date. A bit like the Pétrus.

My Yankee Doodle guest had the girlie starter of endive salad with pear and gorgonzola dressing. It was fresh, crisp and so pretty she could hardly bear to eat it, but 'My, am I glad that I did!' she drawled.