Andy Richardson: Be careful what you ‘Ritz’ for from a posh dinner in London

For putting up with a man who insists on living in draughty old houses, who buys cars because he likes their colour then realises they cost as much to repair as buying a more sensible car, who works six days a week then mows the lawn on the seventh and who burns fried eggs when important guests visit, it was her turn for a treat.

My homage to her warmth, kindness and selflessness – yes, I’m going to stick this right under her nose, later, to win extra brownie points – was a trip to a place she’d always wanted to visit: The Ritz.

For one night only, we would mix with the hoi polloi. A couple whose idea of a good time is a frozen pizza with extra cheese would instead dress up – I’d like to say, ‘to the nines’, but, in reality, ‘in clothes that still fit’.

We would sit in a dining room graced by the Aga Khan, Paul Getty, Winston Churchill and Charles de Gaulle. And we would eat posh snacks that tasted almost as good as our favourite brand of crisps.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, lots of stuff, as it turned out. On the day of our – sorry, her – treat, I was called into a meeting. For reasons too complicated to unpack – though let’s bracket it under the grouping ‘travel arrangements’ – I ended up arriving five hours early. Yes, five hours. In a car, in central London, where there’s a ULEZ charge, a congestion charge and where parking for a day costs more than it costs to go out for dinner for two. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a new mortgage, and all that.

We arrived a little early, of course – 30 minutes, rather than five hours. The restaurant was closed. Damn.

So we sat in a corridor and listened to a man play piano. If ever I become really, really, really rich, I want to buy a corridor and have a man come and play piano in it. It’s great. Who knew the joys from listening to a sharp suited man tinkling the ivories while sitting on a plush chair? Frankly, we could have left right there and then, avoided a big old bill, and stopped at the services on the way home for a flapjack.

The Ritz had been ours – albeit only a small corridor – and our (sorry, her) desires had been sated.

More was to come, however, and we were ushered into a dining room that bore no resemblance to the taco bars that we usually frequent.

There were people in posh clothes bringing bread on silver salvers – our Tiger Bread from Asda is never served like that. What fun.

We ate dinner and resolved to save hard, not heat the house, go without food, walk the ten-mile-round-trip to the supermarket, anything, so long as we could return to eat The Ritz’s Beef Wellington.

And, who knows, if we buy enough scratch cards and find our luck is in, perhaps we will.

There was a pigeon dish. Which was fine. But then the waiter wheeled a really big thing with cogs to the table, as well as some booze, some matches, a frying pan and a gas burner. He sliced the breasts from the bird then put the legs and carcass into the big thing with cogs. Then he crushed the bejeezus out of it, poured the blood into a pan, set it on fire and poured it all over our food.

I know, I know. We should have stuck with the flapjack option on the service station, but when in Rome – or, rather Piccadilly – it’s always best to eat your flaming blood sauce with a smile.

Which, oddly, I failed to do.

Dinner ended, I inappropriately-applauded a female jazz singer who’d joined the guy on the piano and I bought a birthday cake for the gaffer, who then worked away for six days so didn’t get to eat it. Fun. Surreal and very definitely; Putting On The Ritz.