Commendably, the refurbishment is much more than a lick of paint. Having snagged a Monday lunchtime table, my cousin, my brother and I were swept into the whirling, amber haze of the busy, deftly remodelled street-level dining room. It was maximum Mayfair (suited power lunchers piling into rattan-edged booths, staff stowing Hamleys bags for moneyed tourist families) set to the parping soundtrack of 1960s French pop. And then there’s the basement bar (the place ravaged most by the fire), an impossibly louche, Raj-era den of pouting red banquettes and high-gloss wood. A place so stylish that even a keema-burping middle manager could be forgiven for momentarily thinking that he is in fact 007, waiting to be propositioned by a Bond girl with a culturally insensitive pun for a name.