Dyspeptic, world-weary critics who dine out night after night, year after year (and, God help us, decade after decade), develop certain unfortunate habits. One is to regale their helplessly trapped, mutely attentive guests with endless gasbag tales about how they’ve seen and devoured everything under the culinary sun. But on one of my early visits to Graydon Carter’s new renovation of the old Monkey Bar, I had to admit to my assembled (and mutely attentive) guests that here was something entirely new. Halfway through our undistinguished, though intermittently entertaining meal, we asked one of the waiters whether that was, in fact, the designer Tom Ford promenading through the tightly packed tables in an impeccably black Tom Ford suit. “I’m not supposed to say,” the waiter whispered, before explaining, with a conspiratorial grin, that the front-room staff at Mr. Carter’s restaurant had been asked to sign confidentiality agreements when taking their jobs.
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