I have raved before about the ravishing refurb of the grande dame of grocers, Fortnum & Mason. So an afternoon appointment in the St James's Restaurant seemed like just the thing for a dismal, fag-end-of-the-festive day.

The magic decorating hand of David Collins has either been mightily restrained here or not used at all; it looks less like its glittering downstairs neighbours and more like God's waiting room. Eastern European staff couldn't quite get to grips with us (we wanted afternoon tea, but in the restaurant, not the stuffy sofa section) and led us from pillar to post.

The tea itself was lovely, bijou but lovely. Tiny portions of the likes of rare breed egg mayo and poached salmon with crème fraiche were bolstered by some teeny savoury tarts and scones the size of petits fours.

We tested the unspoken tea rule by ordering more and it was brought without a murmur or an addition to the bill, which still came to a gasp-inducing £83. Sure, we had champagne, but only a glass each, not a magnum.

Lunches look vaguely appealing - black pudding with 'devil'd sauce'; roast Goosnargh chicken breast - but not enough to demand a return. I'd much rather be downstairs at the infinitely lovelier Fountain.