Dinner for two by the Thames, four hours at an easy pace

Across the bridge the City keeps grander rooms. The Ned holds several restaurants under a single Lutyens roof, the rooftop terraces around Bank and Monument face Wren's great cathedral across a few hundred metres of slate, and Bishopsgate's towers lift whole dining rooms far above the street. On a weeknight after eight these rooms are calmer than their daytime reputation suggests, and a table for two is often easier to find than in the West End. At the weekend much of the City closes, so a Saturday dinner usually belongs on the south bank.

Name the restaurant and she dresses for it: understated for a market kitchen, evening wear for a room forty floors up. She arrives at the agreed time, and if you are running behind, fifteen minutes of slack are allowed before anything needs rearranging. Meeting at the restaurant? She takes a seat at the bar rather than an empty table, so the first few minutes feel like a meeting of friends rather than a reservation. The four hours begin when she arrives, not when the first course does.

Conversation looks after itself more often than guests expect. She will ask about the city you flew in from, the deal that kept you late, the book on the bedside table, and she has her own stories to trade. If there is something you would rather not discuss, work or family or anything else, one line to the desk beforehand is enough, and the subject simply never comes up.