Had I been asked, I would have been in favour of scoffing some substantial scram in somewhere like Pizza Express - unpretentious, reasonably priced and a vibrant atmosphere. Alas, I let my friends decide where we would dine.

I took a wander down to ‘that London’ last week. The weather was glorious and I took the opportunity of catching up with old friends on the South Bank in the balmy evening sunshine.

As I have said before, there’s never much obvious evidence of recessions or fiscal crises when you are in the City, or the belly of the beast. You have to look carefully: people asking for a ‘jug of water from the tap’ instead of the nonsensical sparkling stuff. Not having wine with your meal (if you have read this blog before you will have already noted my wine ‘thing’, my anti-wine whinings!).

People taking the tube home rather than the taxi. People not going for the quick beer after the meal.

As we stood on the South Bank deciding where to go for eats, I decided to let my three friends make that call - me being a visitor and all.

Had I been asked, I would have been in favour of scoffing some substantial scram in somewhere like Pizza Express - unpretentious, reasonably priced, vibrant atmosphere and staff who are generally nice, charismatic, warm and normal. Staff who don’t react to your request for a jug of water “from the tap”, as if you have just revealed to them a secret illegal fetish that has been outlawed since 1746. Staff who don’t breeze about self importantly, looking frantically busy, but who don’t ever seem to be frantically busy enough to bringing your meal to you post haste, or to possibly even put what I would call a normal and healthy portion of food on your plate.

As you have guessed, we did not make it to Pizza Express, as my friends selected another venue on the South Bank. I’ll protect the innocent, and the guilty, by calling it Pretentiaville. I was reliably informed that ‘famous people’ often frequented it. I couldn’t possibly think why. Or perhaps I possibly could.

The lady at the ‘front of the house’ probably has a really important title like Maitre du Reservation de Prioritisation de Royalité de Audrey Hepburn de Entitlement de Show Me Some Respect de Look at Me, however as I saw it, the girl in the black trousers and white blouse who’s job it was to hand out menus and take orders was the picture of rehearsed suave, rehearsed cool and rehearsed superior. All effortlessly practiced in the bathroom each morning and evening.

Anyway I’m ranting. My point being she decided very quickly that I wasn‘t a priority.

Because in a restaurant of suits, where customers seemed to be more interested in looking around at other tables to see who else of note was there, alas I was wearing a six year old pair of jeans, converse runners and a ‘monkey magic’ tee shirt. I bought the whole ensemble in Camden Market for an amount equivalent to the price of a Café Mochalattamericanapretentiaccino in this same restaurant.

She surely thought to herself as she looked at this vagrant before her that there’d be zippidy of a tip to look forward to.

Of course if I had been recognized as an associate of Jay-Z, Emminem or the latest celebrity dude from Heat magazine then it might have been different. And she mustn’t subscribe to money.co.uk.

The first sulk came when I asked her to put my rucksack (I came straight from the train) in her ‘cloak-room’. Clearly this is a step too far for someone who has been trained for 5 years in the top finishing schools of Switzerland. I really felt for the poor soul, as she possibly even began to question for a millisecond her normally unshakeable sense of superiority and entitlement.

So that was huff number one from the bag lady.

Huff number two came when we handed her back the wine menu and said no thank you.

Huff number three came when only one person had a starter.

The penultimate in the charity huffathon came when we all politely declined dessert.

Alas the poor lass didn’t realise that all of these huffs were contributing factors in my decision (in a moment of weakness, yes I did pay for the meal) to pay a mere 7.5% tip instead of the standard 12-15% tip that for some reason in our crazy world is considered the norm.

The bill came to £119 for what I would generously describe as:

• 6 plates of food
• with paltry, skimpy portions.
• side orders of vegetables costing extra.
• but with not one but two delicious jugs of municipal tap water costing nothing but spiteful grudging glances

She saved the best huff for last, and in a show of defiance she declined us our inalienable right to free sucky minty sweets to help the digestive process.

The next morning I had a couple of hours to spare, so I headed into Borough Market, just of the South Bank. In the heart of the market I found a charming café, manned by the most charming and warm hearted lady.

“What can I get you my luv?”, she asked warmly.

Still a bit groggy from the night before she took pity on me as I looked trapped and terrified and trying to make sense of a menu and a blackboard scrawled with a multitude of wonders.

“Your brain doesn’t seem to be engaged yet this morning my dear”. she said helpfully.

“Take a seat and I know just the ticket for you”.

“That’s good enough for me”, I thanked her.

Sometimes you don’t ever need to question your trust in a complete stranger.

She then brought down to me a steaming cup of ‘Rosie Lee’.

I drank my tea, started into my daily crossword and within five minutes Florence Nightingale arrived at my table with a feast:

Sausages, bacon, mushroom, pudding, beans, bubble and squeak, tomatoes and the two finest fried eggs you can imagine.

The only word to describe the feast is ‘Scrumptialiscious’.

This cost me £6.

That means that meal cost 95% less than the ordeal of stiffness, unpleasantness and superiority the night before. Am I missing something?

A lovely person served me. She was smiling, I was smiling, the sun was shining. She got a 40% tip. Everyone was a winner. And best of all, when I thought it was all done, Florence Nightingale came down to my table and topped up my cuppa again. For free naturally.

Honestly you can take your haute cuisine and your finishing schools. From now on, I’m with Florence.