We are trudging up Ladder Street looking for somewhere to eat. It's hot. It's humid. It's steep. Logic strikes. What about a beer? 'You're a genius,' says Diane Stormont.
We file down narrow Tun Wo Lane not far from Central Police Station. This feels like the sort of alley into which smugglers and body-snatchers would have disappeared in the 1860s, when this flank of hillside was crammed with bars and brothels.
Instead, we come to a small piazza, with Tuscan-ochre walls and shaky wooden tables and stools. A nice man emerges from Petticoat Lane bar and presents us with a cold Stella Artois and a Heineken.
Hey, I say, pointing. Here's where Le Tire Bouchon has gone to. That understated French restaurant was always one of my favourites but I haven't been able to find it since it left its former premises in Old Bailey Street. It turns out it's just around the corner in Graham Street. Mr Stormont switches off the laptop and we drink up and go.
There's been a transformation. The former Bouchon was tiny to the point of claustrophobia, bursting at the seams when it had more than 10 customers. This place sprawls over an impressively-decorated 4,000 square feet, with a large bar area, lounge, large private room and seats for about 100.
The menu, thank God, hasn't changed and the prices remain reasonable. The daily lunch looked good. The thick mushroom soup comes with chunks of mushrooms and lettuce. It's delicious and sustaining. In this little corner of France, I go for what a couple of million Frenchmen have every day, entrecote and fries.
