The original Ivy was just off Charing Cross Road in London and is still there. It was celebrated as a haunt of celebrities although on the couple of occasions that I visited, before it expanded as a brand across the UK, I never recognised any luminaries of stage or screen. Nor did I think it was particularly good.

My only exposure to dining adjacent to a celeb was in Rules, which styles itself as London’s oldest restaurant. The tables were irritatingly close together and, dining alone, I buried myself in the Daily Torygraph. Then, to my horror, I recognised a voice right next to me – that of a well-known television comedian telling jokes.

It was impossible not to overhear this conversation as the raconteur endlessly ploughed on explaining the science and structure of jokes to his fellow diner. I learned that there is quite a science to comedy but was consumed with anguish lest I burst out laughing. Luckily for me Paul Merton was not doing his routine and the conversation was as funny as a cold fish supper.

What chains like The Ivy (part of a recent sale to Abu Dhabi investors for £1.4 billion) offer is, of course, convenience and reliability. The brand still trades on a celebrity cachet and is popular with ladies who lunch, and more specifically, with ladies who like to tell other ladies that they lunch at the Ivy.

So here we are, discussing last night’s concert at the Usher Hall given by Christopher Cross. At 75, he’s one of the younger ‘stars’ we’ve seen recently. But his cool, softly delivered lyrics and jazzy vibe were totally drowned out by a noisy drummer who seemed to be banging out Ride of the Valkyries. The trio of backing singers looked and sounded like refugees from the Auchengeich Miners’ Welfare with outfits by Barnardos. Their weird dance routine perhaps choreographed by Marcel Marceau. Then there were the flashing lights – after 10 minutes of sensory deprivation I was ready to admit to anything and felt like calling Amnesty International. In a rare display of diplomacy I decline to enquire as to the cost of the tickets.

Hopefully, The Ivy’s £50 lunch menu will cheer me up – it comes with a glass of the house English fizz which was surprisingly pleasant. We’re alcohol-lite today so reluctantly pass on the Fleurie which comes in at a hefty £66.

My first course arrives in a small copper frying pan aesthetically pleasing and very tasty. It’s a moreish tagliolini – fine spaghetti in a cheddary cheese sauce speckled with small brown flakes which are purported to be truffle and finished under the grill. It’s not haute cuisine but satisfying trencherman fare. My partner is disappointed with the vegetarian main courses and so adds chips to the burrata with pesto starter and has it as a main – which is adjudged to be excellent.

Service is brisk and my main course of half-a-chicken, done bang bang style, arrives promptly. Distinctly underwhelming on the plate, this chicken was obviously a bantam – possibly an adolescent one at that. Two small discs of fowl are served in a spicy tomato sauce with a touch of sesame and six peanut halves strewn on top. It comes with a small tub of a mayonaise-based relish which is good but clashes with the spicey tomato of the bang bang sauce. It is a desolate looking dish. Nonetheless, along with a substantial portion of aorta-clogging triple cooked chips it hits the spot.

The finale is tarte fine aux pommes – carmelised apples on a base of puff pasty served with flaming calvados and a boule of vanilla ice cream. It is excellent — a real bistro classic and the size of a small saucepan lid.

From a business point of view, The Ivy is realising a healthy margin on the food component of this carb-heavy meal of pasta, chips and pastry. But as I survey the expensive decor and location of the restaurant along with its army of staff, it’s clear that margins overall are razor thin.

Should I return to The Ivy? On principle – No. Will I return? Most probably – unless we remember to call Café Marlayne earlier.

Verdict: 7/10