The floodgates can then open to a lunch of opulent perfection, dishes that – at their best – defy the fashions and fads and, as centuries pass, will surely remain as the ultimate treats. 

We shared oysters (fat, juicy, salty and fresh) and then I had foie gras. The latter, a rare treat as my body seems at one with militant vegans on this delicacy. It was a large thin slice of terrine, as soft and fatty and rich as it is at its best, although the sea of sauternes jelly that surrounded it was too sugary.

Then, of course, I ate from the carving trolley, a mainstay of Wiltons: the Wednesday meat being roast sirloin of beef. Apparently Wiltons regulars – their own club bores – can tell the day of the week by the trolley: lamb on a Monday, pork on Tuesday, gammon on Thursday and salmon coulibiac on Friday, beef Wellington on Saturday (take that Craig David).

I had a charred end and a few melting slices. With creamy horseradish, great gravy, crunchy potatoes and spinach, it was faultless. Then came a crème brûlée, then some farmhouse cheeses.

If I wasn’t a restaurant critic who must eat out for a living, I could retreat happily. Yes, I could say, I have eaten out, have experienced clubland… and it was good.