Grand delusions

Too right, the rich are different. It's a Tuesday evening, and the glamour factor is through the roof. Men are uniformly of brooding, swarthy demeanour: sharply suited, little chest hair curls peeping out from collars, they sweep the room from under hooded eyelids. The air is thick with machismo. 'For God's sake, don't give this place a bad review,' warned the date, 'or you'll be sleeping with the fishes.'

And the women? Good grief. The couture brigade is out in force - whippet-thin, hair like spun sugar, necklines plunging to navels, faces like masks. Those who weren't 103 and dressed like 25 had the distinct air of gals of the night. One spectacular creature in Pucci shoes, with the skin-tight black garb of a dominatrix and the white breasts of a goddess, drew every eye in the room. What was it that attracted her to her Danny De Vito-esque date?

With my penchant for lipstick and peroxide, I'm not given to feeling like a natural beauty, but this lot made me feel as fresh-faced and dewy as a model in a Timotei advert.

In walks fashionista Isabella Blow, wearing a feathered confection that would make Bjork think twice. Then, oh joy, we notice the very apogee of matronly glamour: holding court in a corner are Elton John and my-partner-David-Furnish.

Little wonder we were made to feel pretty far down the food chain. Staff attitudes ranged from the abrupt (the saturnine head barman who appeared rather stressed by the number of signature Bellinis in signature tumblers he was expected to knock up; though these white peach juice and prosecco alcopops are hardly brain surgery) to the contemptuous (the pinstriped maitre d' who was much less gorgeous than he thought he was, and in dire need of some lessons in grace and hospitality).

OK, I digress. But really the food isn't the point here at all. At best, it's rather dull, competently executed trad-trat Italian. Let's call it the San Lorenzo paradigm: ludicrously priced pastas you could knock up better at home (tagliolini with pesto, £15) served to people who simply don't (or can't or won't) cook. We kicked off with pasta e fagioli - a thick, Tuscan borlotti bean soup. The gloop factor made a stodgy, unfinishable stew of this simple classic. Semolina gnocchi alla Romana (gnocchi alla Romana are always semolina) in an uncomplicated tomato sauce were good (but not as good as my mama's).

We also had their famous calves' liver a la Veneziana - thin strips of excellent meat, off-puttingly greige from too-thorough cooking - with polenta. My butterflied veal was good-quality meat again, simply flash-fried in butter and deglazed with lemon juice. It was served with appalling rice, reheated into dry little yellow mouse droppings, faintly scented with old curry. Perhaps this was a cheeky turmericforsaffron substitution. The pudding trolley looked as though it had escaped from a Harvester. Our pastry and cream 'millefeuille' did little to dispel the impression.

There are Ciprianis worldwide - you'll find them in places infested by people who used to be called jetsetters - so I guess they operate as a sort of rich person's Maccy D's. Wherever you are, you get a familiar menu, quality you understand and the company of people just like you. The rest of us can just occasionally visit. And gawp.

A three-course meal for two with wine, water and service is about £120. 25 Davies Street W1. Tel: 020 7399 0500. Tube: Bond Street

Cipriani
Davies Street, London, W1K 3DE