Food critics are the most useless, pathetic group on the planet. They’re only a millimetre above public relations people. No insult could be greater.

“But you’re a food critic,” I hear you say. If you think that, the men in white coats should take you away. I’m apoplectic because two critics, writing for “respectable” publications, said the hamburgers at my local dump, Byron, were the best in London. They’re the worst ever.

Byron is beyond belief terrible.

Which is a pity as the premises, overlooking Holland Park, were previously inhabited by Ask, which was rather good.

Like the canaries sent down the mines to test the air, my lovely PA Ruby checked out Byron. That she came back alive is a miracle. She certainly came back smelling of cooking fat. Dinah, my assistant, noticed at once.

Ruby said, “I smelt like a burger going home on the Tube.” Better to smell like them than eat them, I say.

I went with Ruby (she was forced under threat of dismissal), my assistant Dinah May and my adorable fiancée Geraldine. She said, “I hope the smell doesn’t attach itself to my jumper.”

We got them to open a window, but the people at the next table objected. When the window was open the smell of frying burgers was blown inwards. When closed, it blasted us.

Some fried courgettes arrived. A clumsy and heavy batter. Very poor.

The menu declares, “Our buns are baked by a fourth generation family baker in the East End. They are just the right size and taste great, the perfect partner for your hamburger.” Both bun and hamburger were awful. The bun tasted as if it had just come, unheated, from the deep freeze.

To add insult to insult we ordered at 1.10pm and it took 40 minutes, in a restaurant far from full, for our burgers to be served.

I pointed out to the manager, Neil Remedios, my bun was cold. He said, “Shall I get another one?”

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