IT wasn’t only the triumphant comeback of Jeremy King, the returning emperor, literally with Jésus by his side, but it marked the renaissance of the business lunch. The opening of Arlington in March reminded us that if we don’t quite have the know-how to build nuclear-power stations or high-speed rail, maintain an effective army or run a respectable police service, we can do one thing brilliantly: lunch. And not any old lunch, but the business lunch. A full-steam-ahead, bells-and-whistles, multi-course, clear-the-afternoon-diary, booze-fuelled feast.
The Brits do lunch like no other. New Yorkers are a pitiful example, brandishing tepid water and actually being appalled at the idea of alcohol at lunchtime. God forbid is a long-gone myth, the martini-opening lunch horrifies the delicate New Yorkers who can only stomach the idea if it’s on Netflix.
