Not mine, but AA Gill from yesterday's Sunday Times
www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/eating_out/a_a_gill/article4780531.ece

"It was with a heavy bowel, and empty expectations, that I went to Andaman at the St James’s Hotel, over-cheffed by a German with a troika of astral projections. This used to be a weirdly louche and secretive club, called Le Petit Club Français, run by an incontinent, drunk old lesbian, who sat snoozing over a large ham, happily relieving herself into the carpet. The members were minor, penurious aristocracy and discreet, plummy homosexuals, at a time when all homosexuals were more or less discreet. I was a plongeur and commis chef here, and learnt the full Orwellian squalor of a pre-Conran West End kitchen. I regularly took salad out of the bin when we ran out. I remember that the whole kitchen gobbed into the vichyssoise of a pair of arch pooves who’d been rude to the waitress. I was a teenager with a bona eke and fit lallies, and regularly had beige door johnnies waiting to ply me with a little drinky-winky. I’d have to slip down the fire escape, which isn’t a euphemism. Happy days."
(Roger Darce sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 15:34, Reply)