An aeon ago, when I was first invited to the odd City lunch, there was a standard formula: G&T, white, red, port, brandy, cigars, with stumps drawn at around a Test match tea interval. But there was a problem. By 8 a.m. local time, when Manhattan was champing at the telephone, London would be at lunch. By the time the call was returned, it would be apparent that lunching had taken place. ‘My Dear Cyrus, how nice to hear your voice. Are you planning to cross the big pond? If so, we’ll have a jolly good lunch.’ Cyrus thought to himself: ‘Is that all those Limeys ever do: have lunch?’ Within a few years, post-Big Bang, the Cyruses did cross the big pond, but not to enjoy lunch. There is an assumption, reinforced by priggishness, that the ensuing puritanism has improved the City. Is that necessarily so?
Anyway, there is at least one building where the old rites are still used. Last week, I went to an immensely stimulating luncheon. We drank Corton–Charlemagne, Dme-Bonneau du Martrey, ’09, followed by a L’Evangile ’01. It was a tribute to the quality of the talk that we did not spend more time analysing and praising those superb wines. Our host had assembled a lively table. There were formidable bankers and lawyers, the historian Michael Burleigh and a few former diplomats: some from the official wing of the FCO, others from its transpontine branch.
A couple of Enigma machines were on display, which was appropriate, for we were discussing Russia. I was sufficiently temerarious to argue that the West could have done more to embrace post-Soviet Russia. Once we had won the Cold War, we should have scrapped our concepts while retaining our weapons systems.
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