In my opinion (the one that counts) we British can boast of two gargantuan gastronomic achievements. One is the traditional English tea with crumpets, scones, fairy cakes, thinly sliced sandwiches et al. The best place for that used to be the Ritz, Claridge’s or the Dorchester. But I haven’t checked them out for a while.

Our other fantastic contribution is the Great British Fry-Up. Using every inch of my skill I can, on a rare day, get the following ingredients onto the plate in good order: fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, fried bread, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms, crispy bacon.

When I’m asked what my last meal should be (and, amazingly, I frequently am) I reply, “The great British fry-up.” Never mind your Gordon Ramsay and your plates decorated with moronic squiggles. GBFU beats them all.

I ordered it on New Year’s Eve 2002 by the sea at Sandy Lane, Barbados.

Now they have the sense to do a marvellous buffet. Then they attempted, with unfailing disaster, a set meal for 300 people. Instead of waiting for overcooked steak and many more pretentious offerings, I had a great, freshly cooked fry-up.

It was five and a half years before I ordered this magical meal again, at the Bird in Hand pub in Gosmore, a delightful Hertfordshire village.

They gave me a nice table in the window facing a fireplace, which, being summer, was unlit. The menu offered home-made steak and kidney pie, chicken and mushroom pie, liver and bacon with mash.

I’m not sure how you can call liver and bacon home-made. But let’s not quibble. Desserts included spotted dick, treacle pudding and chocolate sponge. My sort of menu.

Leslie Hendry, the co-owner, serves; his wife Carol cooks. There was also roast beef, lamb and chicken. First I ordered steak and kidney pie with a jacket potato and veggies. Then I spotted the egg, bacon, sausage and beans and switched to that, adding a slice of beef as well.

“I’d rather have a jacket potato instead of chips,” I said. Princess (aka Paola Lombard) chipped in (geddit?) with “You can’t have the jacket potato with a fry-up because you dunk the chips in the egg.” Thus spoke a true expert.

Princess had large onion rings, baked potato, lettuce, cucumber, chilli and tomato. She threw in a bit of sausage, egg and chips. It was all splendidly robust. The chips were bought in, but perfectly good and enough for a family of 20.

To finish I had treacle pudding with custard and Billy Boy, a local ice cream. The bill was only £18.20. I gave them £25 because everyone was so pleasant.

I wandered into the kitchen and looked at the steak and kidney pie.

“It’s a lot more home-made than what you had,” explained Carol.

“But I like a fry-up,” I said. “I don’t get it very often.”

“It’s not good for your heart,” cautioned Carol.

“It’s not good for your stomach either,” I responded.

Princess is very sensitive to noise. I hear a chorus of “Then how on earth can she accompany you?” At the Cadogan hotel she walked out of two rooms because they were noisy. Even at the Ritz, where she had a beautiful suite, she was concerned about traffic five floors below.

So I put her in the Berkeley hotel, Belgravia. The suite was newly decorated, elegant and superbly tasteful in a semi-modern way. I’ve never seen accommodation so well decked out. Everything from chocky bars — I ate three — to television in the bathroom. And totally quiet as it faced the church at the back.

I was very impressed with the general manager, Klaus Kabelitz, and all his staff. Courteous, smiling, hospitable. Top marks for everything. Princess loved the breakfast and even the coffee. Being of Italian parentage she’s very fussy about that.

Then, at the last minute — total collapse! Princess was standing on the steps of the hotel as I arrived in my Suzuki Grand Vitara to pick her up. The night before I’d dropped her off in the Bentley.

Perhaps the doorman didn’t like cheaper cars. Because he just stood there, a few feet from Princess, doing absolutely nothing. He saw her pick up her suitcase and carry it to the car. He watched in a stupor as she pulled down the front seat and put it in the back. He remained indolent and inefficient as she got in and closed the door. He continued to look atrophied as I drove off.

Mr Kabelitz should send him, and any of his colleagues who are that inept, to the Ritz hotel in Piccadilly for a lesson in doorman charm and efficiency.

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