Then there was the bread. Oh the bread, the bread. Sourdough, mini loaves, crispbreads and croissant. Yes, croissant: a quarter-way through lunch. Unnecessary, bonkers, wrong-time-of-the-day lunacy. But, really as good a croissant as you’ll get in the chicest Parisian café. It was like an aside from the chef: ‘Yeah, just FYI, I also make the greatest croissants.’ 

The Wee Mop went mad with the bread and yeasty – Marmite on steroids – butter. He then ignored a mini wild-garlic pizza and his beef fillet, but hearing he liked tomatoes the waiter brought him a bowl of them, simply chopped, which he wolfed down.

I worked through a perfect mini pie of grouse, with a dark gravy of outrageously fun largesse containing a reduction of foie gras, and a fabulous rectangle of turbot, topped with lobster and caviar (yup, all the big guns came out), but its richness was tempered by oysterish salsify and salty sea purslane. 

I then found space for a vast plate of English cheeses, mainly to excuse further glasses of the game-changing English Danbury Ridge Pinot Noir the excellent sommelier had introduced me to. Finally, a serious English pinot. There goes the climate but, hey ho, here comes the proper vino.

In a room of Japanese minimalism and sleek spot lighting, Smith surpasses his prose and through his food has woven a fine fairy tale.