There, as the Waterside Inn reinforced its reputation (and kept its stars) with quenelles de brochet and his own sublime tarte Tatin, he could make a public virtue of being classic and old-fashioned. The dining rooms were padded deep with chintz. His wine cellar was exclusively French, for he loved his bordeaux and burgundies too well to stray—going to Bordeaux every year to taste the en primeur vintage, and cultivating his own vineyard at his villa near Saint-Tropez.

By 2020 London could boast three three-star Michelin restaurants—but Paris had ten. Britain now offered cuisines from all over the world, but too many new dishes were merely visual, picnic stuff that lacked depth. The best of British cooking was still the afternoon tea, with treacle tart and sponge cake and scones with jam and cream, which he and Albert both loved greedily and which had persuaded them, in the beginning, that there was hope to be found somewhere. But those peas, alas, were not yet right. They had to be fresh-shelled, to start with; cooked in butter, never water; and then, preferably, cut one by one in half before they could ever grace a plate.

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