Alain Ducasse sits at the “Table Lumière” in his new London restaurant at the Dorchester hotel. Inside this gourmet grotto, a curtain of fibre-optic lights shimmer in a circle around him, while a glass vasselier at his side groans with a booty of Saint-Louis crystal goblets, delectable Hermès china and Puiforcat silver. Later, these precious items will be laid on this table, a private space for six where dishes such as Ducasse’s chestnut velouté with foie gras and whipped cream, oeufs mollet wrapped in silver leaf and roasted pigeon with Tuscan crostini will be served.

At the moment, there is nothing on the bare linen tablecloth in front of him except a small cup of excellent espresso and a copy of a restaurant review. This is a difficult moment for me. For it is my review of his newly opened London restaurant he is reading and it was not, shall we say, an entirely positive one. From across the table, I can see that some of my sentences have been highlighted with yellow fluorescent pen and inky annotations have been made in the margins. For a restaurant critic, this is like having your homework checked by God. Ducasse taps his finger on the table and begins.