‘Mr Winner, how do you plead?” asked the judge. “Guilty, your honour,” I replied. The judge looked over his half-moon glasses and spoke. “Mr Winner,” he declared, “you have pleaded guilty to the charge of going to restaurants, failing to warn the staff you are going to slate them mercilessly and then standing next to them for a photograph as if they were your best friends. I sentence you to eat a second meal at La Figa in Narrow Street, E14!”

“No, no,” I cried as they led me away. “Anything but that.”

The moral of this story is: never trust any restaurant book except mine. Harden’s London restaurant guide 2009 summed up, via readers’ views, La Figa as “an absolutely stunning local Italian”. Stunning is not the word I’d use. Revolting, ghastly, pathetic and dreadful come to mind.

I was in the East End — yuppie heaven, not my idea of fun — to visit a street in Newham where PC Gary Toms died in a shootout. As founder and chairman of the Police Memorial Trust I’d gone to photograph the spot preparatory to erecting a memorial to commemorate his bravery. I decided to lunch that side of the divide. A mistake.

La Figa faces a tedious square which would be a big attraction in Stevenage new town. Nowhere else.

David Lean used to live opposite.

The last time I was in his house, with a huge garden facing the Thames, was after his memorial service at St Paul’s.

A deeply moving event. The band of the Welsh Guards played Colonel Bogey outside. In the cathedral a 70-piece orchestra was conducted by Maurice Jarre. Peter O’Toole and Omar Sharif spoke, as did Robert Bolt, who wrote Lawrence of Arabia. Suffering dreadfully from a stroke, he was assisted by Sarah Miles and shouted in a broken voice:

“I am here, David.”

My friend Steven Berkoff lives in Narrow Street. As does Sir Ian McKellen, whom I interviewed for a movie in 1963. The restaurant manager, Attilio Fanciulli, assured me they both went to La Figa. Berkoff told me it had gone off. I can’t believe it was ever “on”.

Attilio chewed gum as we entered. A poor first impression. The room was devoid of diners, full of grotesque, high-backed, modern chairs looking like art exhibits gone wrong. There were shiny-topped tables and a bar.

I was introduced to the chef, Angelo, who said he’d just made the bread. I took a bit from a large roll. It was heavy and clammy. Bread is obviously not Angelo’s strong suit.

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