It’s the opening of Ricardo’s new restaurant in Notting Hill, to which he’s invited a couple of hundred of his closest friends, all of whom he secretly despises. It’s tipped to become the place to end all places.
Picture the scene: the beautiful people, the fabulous décor, the tiny fried quails eggs on little hash brown cakes strewn with morsels of bacon, the three skewered baked beans on a slice of quality sausage, a fried cherry tomato on a square of black pudding, a wild mushroom astride a triangle of fried bread. The journalists are busily thinking up their articles for the Sunday supplements. ‘Absolutely brilliant’, ‘Po-mo party food to dine for.’