Some speccy bod in a white coat has just pronounced that Homo sapiens is diverging into two separate species: thin, clever, attractive, tall, amusing, polite, perky, priapic people; and short, fat, hairy, stupid, dribbling, smelly, hideous, slobby people.

These two groups are to be known scientifically as Homo club and Homo world traveller — or, more colloquially, Boden people and Liverpudlian people. Apparently, all the good, chunky organic DNA stuff is getting selectively bred into nice folk, while the mechanically reclaimed, processed, dehydrated genes-style DNA twizzlers are being slipped into underage chavs as they vomit insensibly into wheelie bins.

Now, a couple of things strike you about this. First, why is it that when scientists, soothsayers, novelists and evangelical Christians look to the future, it’s invariably a dystopian bog of grim consequences? History tells us that all our tomorrows have been better than their respective yesterdays. There has not been a single generation that would have been better off reliving its grandparents’ lives.

I went to see Al Gore’s compelling An Inconvenient Truth last week. I’d already seen it at a literary festival in the summer. He shook my hand. Or perhaps I shook his. When I left, I passed his modest fleet of cars, all standing waiting with their engines running to whisk him to his next inconvenient lecture. And herein lies the second thing. Not hypocrisy — Gore’s no hypocrite. But he does point out that when confronted with his climactic vision, many people go straight from denial to despair without an intervening moment of action.

I’m sure he’s right. But I think it’s not that simple. You see, I know that most of you, on reading the two-species bit at the top of this article, muttered through the marmalade: “How awful. But phew, at least we and our sprogs will be all right, because, obviously, we’re in the alpha group.” The inconvenient truth is that humans are split into contradictory halves. Collectively, we’re pessimists, but personally, we’re optimists. We all agree the globe’s going tits up, but, actually, we quite like big tits.

Gore’s right — if something isn’t done, we’re not going to evolve into Boden or Liverpudlian, just into soot. But I know it won’t be me, because someone like Gore will come along and sort it out. I know I need to take action, so I ride a bike, but I also know I’ll be okay, so I drive a Bentley. Admire Gore, love Clarkson — the smirking dichotomy at the end of life as we know it.

As far as the world divided is concerned, we don’t have to wait for the 22nd century. It’s happening right now. And it isn’t being done by DNA, but by doughnuts. Already, in America, society is stratified, not by sex, religion, colour or language, but by size. To the thin go the spoils, the looks, the money, the entitlement to fun. Anybody doing anything that involves humping or wheeling, wearing protective gloves or answering the phone to strangers has guts that slop and seethe like angry space hoppers.

I was in New York a few weeks ago, and I know that if I’d stayed more than a month, I’d be delivering pizzas with my thighs making a damply soft slapping noise. It’s the breakfast that does it, the menu I can’t refuse. I ate three breakfasts a day. Because of the time lag, I could start at six, at the bar in a diner, with oatmeal and syrup, then a ranch omelette that looked like the short-order chef had thrown up on the grill, with hash browns and toast and jelly and a side order of bacon that was just glutinous fat held together by fried shoelaces. And then a doughnut.

On the way back, I picked up bagels and lox and cream cheese. The kid in the house I was staying in would be just getting ready for school, so I’d grab a bowl of those indigenous Day-Glo cereals that look like Walt Disney’s ashes, with a sprinkling of the small cartoon animals that were sacrificed to take him into the next life.

Size is the new communism, the fat cold war. The haves are the new have-nots — and the joke is that the lion’s share of life’s goodies is offered to those who are on a diet.

Anyway, the Wallace Collection lied to me. What’s the world coming to when museums start telling fibs? “Oh look, here’s a priceless ancient rare thing with a chip — it says so on the label.” Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s the curator’s coffee mug. Maybe that ancient Greek jewellery is actually his wife’s coil.

The Wallace said that the museum was going to be open on Friday and Saturday evening, so we could peruse the collection before having dinner in the new glass-roofed atrium. Well, it wasn’t, although I did see a very fine marble bust of King Charles I. Can you imagine the boredom of sitting for a marble bust? Charles saying: “What on earth do I need a marble head for?” Well, funny you should bring that up, Your Majesty.

The atrium restaurant is rather handsome, in a conservative, continental way, with overwrought garden furniture and scarlet upholstery. It’s a courtyard, surrounded by walls painted that peachy, dusty-yellow dun colour I associate with Sienna, but the Blonde thought were more Monaco.

The menu is cordoned into breakfast, all-day, lunch and dinner, with various subsections dealing with pastries, cheeses and terrines. It’s a bit like an article in the EU constitution. I started with a classic frisée salad, speckled with lardons and a poached egg. It was pretty critic-proof. The Blonde hates frisée, says it’s like eating Shrek’s pubic hair, so she had the equally excellent octopus with chickpeas and lemon confit.

For a main course, she had cod with cocoa bean, tomato confit and ham. Cod now being officially extinct, I had lamb, and our friend Grant went for a pork chop with gherkin and onion sauce. Pork chops have become an endangered-menu species, their habitat taken over by global Italianisation and the ubiquitous veal chop.

This food is old-fashioned, provincial French bistro. It has been organised by the estimable Oliver Peyton, who seems to have found his niche in museums. I must say, it’s really very, very good indeed, reasonably priced and daintily served. If the gallery were open, the Wallace Collection would be the best first-date venue in London. As it is, go for lunch — or on a weekend evening, with a sure shag.

The Wallace Collection

Sun-Thu, 10am-5pm. Fri & Sat, 10am-11pm
Hertford House, Manchester Square, W1; 020 7563 9505

5 stars Shake that thing
4 stars Wiggle it
3 stars Think about it
2 stars Forget it
1 star Beat it

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