On the pavement at Bank this Monday, the faces were downcast, voices muted, as people came to terms with the knowledge that their world had changed for the worse.

The mood was just the same in 1 Lombard Street, the classic City diner. At lunchtime, it was half-empty and it wasn’t champagne being ordered.
“I need that drink,” I heard one man in a suit say to another, as he downed a glass of house white. “It just takes the edge off things — I’m so unnerved. There’s a mate of mine, he’s seriously well-heeled, and he’s on anti-depressants and seeing a psychiatrist. Everyone’s life is at stake.”

Little scraps of unhappy conversation floated up. “The only thing that’s really valuable is the quality of your cashflow.” Some were reduced to offering each other hopeful proverbs, such as “The City of London will survive.”

1 Lombard Street is itself an ex-bank, appropriately enough, its neoclassical interior having been all creamified over into dignified luxury. There’s a fine glass dome, letting in light over a circular bar — and the main floor serves a lavish brasserie menu, still a step down from the restaurant proper, where main courses clock in at £29.50 and above.

We aimed for comfort food, as cheap as we could find it, just a plateful and a glass, earning just the faintest hint of derision from the lead French waiter as he confirmed that I was only having “bangers”.

Bangers and mash, onions and gravy, at £12.50 much the cheapest main, couldn’t be faulted. The Huntsham Farm Middle White sausages were tip-top stuff, served with good mash, not too rich, and a dark brown, stickily reduced onion gravy. Just the ticket. A side order of French beans (£4.75) was fine too, dressed with a little softened shallot.

Smoked haddock, spinach and poached egg (£19.50) was the fishy equivalent — seven pieces of fish prettily arranged in a starfish shape around a soft egg, covered with a creamy mustard sauce and accompanied by some wilted spinach. It was buttery but digestible, a little like a lavish brunch but none the worse for that.

A glass of house white (£5) had real flavour, unlike most pinot grigio, but the house red, a Côtes de Bourg, Château Peychaud (£5.50), was disappointing, no pleasure to drink. There was no question of tap-water either.

And that was that. Two of the most modest mains, plus one side dish and two glasses of house white, ended up in a bill for £58.22 — and it could easily have been double that. Ordering as modestly as possible in marble halls remains one way of crunch-eating — but maybe it’s a bit pointless when you can eat just as well, more casually, in many a good gastropub?

Although, it’s true, not in the very heart of the City like this. For me, the best part of this meal was stepping afterwards into Hawksmoor’s Saint Mary Woolnoth opposite. It’s one of the glories of London but it’s only open during business hours frustrating weekend visitors.

I hadn’t been in for years. On Monday afternoon, it was quite empty, until a businessman came in to pray. And, very quietly, cry.