If your stately building needs extra revenue, why not just open a bloody tearoom?
As I left Bryn Williams at Somerset House, past the stiff-faced security man on reception and over the deserted courtyard, I decided: I am no longer eating dinner in wings of historical buildings. I’m through. And, yes, this might be the most princessy utterance my lentil-loving paymasters have ever published, but bear with me.
Years ago, during a heinous dinner at The Keeper’s House in the Royal Academy (a Peyton restaurant lodging within a Palladian mansion dating from circa 1664), that I walked out of mid-entree, I began hatching a theory that old, protected buildings and pricey food should never meet.
These people do not eat. They live mainly on dust inhaled from voluminous rulebooks.
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