Signs of a slowdown are rarer than hen’s teeth at posh eaterie The Wolseley, a favourite of London’s financial powerbrokers, nestled next to The Ritz, where your humble correspondent had the pleasure of engaging in an enjoyable breakfast meeting.
The only downside was struggling to hear one’s dining companion over the hubbub of a myriad rival conversations; every table was taken by sober looking business people engaged in no doubt far less exciting discussions.
Come the end of one’s feast, many of the original cast had sidled off to do whatever important tasks it was that paid for their meal tickets.
In their stead came a coterie of what can only be described as Women Who Lunch, fortifying themselves with the finest espresso before a spot of light (or not so light) retail therapy in the nearby boutiques.
Once again not a spare table was to be had and, if anything, the hubbub had moved a notch higher.
If we are marooned in the depths of the worst recession since the 1930′s, one would not wish to be tasked with securing a table at said cafe when the good times roll once again.