‘Me. The world’s greatest restaurant critic. Who hates queues. Waiting in the rain for a bowl of soup’

You find me this week queuing in the freezing cold with a dozen young Japanese outside a noodle joint in Holborn. Me. The world’s greatest restaurant critic.
Who hates queues. Who believes he is far too important to wait for anything, let alone a restaurant table. Who is old and mean and doesn’t much like young
people. Or noodles for that matter. Waiting in the wind and rain with strangers for a bowl of soup. Like a bloody homeless.