Sartoria is a pale grey restaurant on Savile Row. As evidence that this is London’s destination street — if menswear is your compulsion — Bill Nighy walked past me as I searched for Sartoria; I had walked, obliquely, into his film and I was not dressed for it. But when am I ever? I wore Gap to the Valentino couture show in Paris, out of sheer spite.
Sartoria — a preening name which I dislike — wafts on reams of praise. Male critics love it; and it is a masculine restaurant. It is long and wide, with dark woods, expensive lamps and what here are called ‘neutral colours’. There is a polished bar and a ‘heated terrace’ overlooking New Burlington Street, and specifically Hauser & Wirth, the art gallery for morons who think that irony is a superhero. (At their Somerset branch they had an installation of cows mooing in what was once a cowshed.
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