Harry, Jeffrey and Benoit

I first ate at the London version of Harry’s Bar in the early 1990s. Back then, Jeffrey Archer and I would give each other dinner about three times a year. It was my turn and he suggested Harry’s, where he was a member but I could pay (on expenses, needless to say). I remember the meal vividly because it was awful. Choosing the same dishes, we started with a risotto, which was just rice plus ingredients. Then there was a leg of lamb for two, grossly over-salted. Had I been the nominal host as well as the real one, it would have gone back to the kitchen with a flea in its ear. Two glasses of competent champagne were followed by a nothing-special Chianti: bill, £208 — to repeat, at early 1990s prices.

I concluded that this was a place for those with more money than taste, to preen and be seen, looking out for Bimbo Bimbette or Florette Floosie or other celebrities whom I had never heard of. I was wrong. The next time I was a guest — arriving with politely disguised unenthusiasm — the food was outstanding. Thus it has remained, perhaps occasionally slipping down to mere excellence. There is no better Italian food in London and it is vastly better than its Venetian namesake.

So a horrid thought assailed me. Had they done something to Jeffrey’s food? He has occasionally, surely unjustly, been accused of failing to temper the wind to those who are not supposed to answer back. Was revenge taken? Finally, I confronted the head waiter: had someone deliberately messed up (I did not say ‘mess’) Lord Archer’s dinner? I must report that the denials were unconvincing.

Anyway, there was no messing the other evening.