Wiltons is probably the best-kept secret in London, the venerable fish restaurant which claims to be the capital’s oldest (1742, they reckon, although some of their customers I think might be older), and which many people still think is a private members’ club. I first got taken there by S I Newhouse, the Manhattan genius who steered Condé Nast to glory, back when glossy magazines were really a thing. I knew more about the power dynamics of publishing than anyone I’d ever met and made a point of taking his British editors to Wiltons on his annual trips to London because he thought it was what they deserved. To him it was the quintessential British experience, assuming all the other diners were either lords or ladies; I never contradicted him, even when I knew that most people in the room worked for Goldman Sachs.