So I did indeed visit six Gordon Ramsay restaurants in four days, which you can read about here, and which, as a colleague pointed out, was printed in the paper a day after I 'fessed up in print to the results of a health check that found raised cholesterol and a waist measurement at the "upper end of what is considered healthy" (the nurse was tugging that tape pretty tight too). Cause and effect, to some degree, perhaps.

In brief, the bottom end of the Ramsay empire - the gastropubs and the charming but feckless Foxtrot Oscar (the only restaurant in London that tells its customers to F*** Off by its very name) - are dire. But the top restaurants, particularly Murano and Gordon Ramsay at Hospital Road, are superb and, suddenly thanks to the dip in bookings, accessible for a special occasion (or a blow out). And York and Albany, run by Angela Harnett in Camden, is great value.

This week, I went to Elena's L'Etoile. Not that I want this blog to be all about food. I'm really not that greedy. Well, I am, but... Anyway, the lunch, upstairs at Elena's, was thrown by the Critics' Circle in honour of Nicholas de Jongh. For 18 years Nick was the chief theatre critic of the Standard, and for six I was Robin to his Batman, but he has now gone over to the other side as a West End playwright and, soon, a screenwriter. It was a convivial affair, the slightly rickety, rackety setting in keeping with the crowd: the youngest people there were in their 40s, and the world of criticism is changing, across all media and thanks largely to the Web. 

The Critics' Circle itself will be 100 years old this year, the oldest professional body of its kind in the world. We (I say we, although I'm a sort of semi-detached member these days) are mulling over ways to commemorate this momentous event. Any ideas?

It's probably going to be quiet, chez Curtis this weekend - indeed, I'll probably be swigging back Benecol and slogging away on the aged bike onto which I've belatedly re-hoisted my lardy frame, in a bid to bring my cholesterol levels below Beth Ditto's. But when I was in my teens I would almost certainly have gone here. If any of you get along, let me know what it was like. They used to be much more unprofessional affairs, thick with the heady air of nerdery and collector-dom, held at the Methodist Hall in Westminster. I don't think I looked at the building itself once on the occasions I went. Too busy looking at Thunderbirds annuals. I must try and get back inside again.

This week, I have mostly been eating in Gordon Ramsay restaurants. Six of them in four days to be precise. To find out why, and what I thought of them, you'll have to read next Thursday's Standard. I will say that, having eaten in both her dining rooms, Angela Hartnett richly deserves her award as chef of the year in the catering industry's Oscars (my colleague Jonathan Prynn sums it up best in his blog). And that bingeing on fine dining gets you over rich food the same way smoking a whole carton of cigarettes can rid you of nicotine addiction. Not premanently, of course...

- On researching the piece that appeared in Monday's paper about Aldwych (from the Saxon Eald Wic meaning "new settlement") I came up against a few blanks. Inquiries about what was happening to the half-built apartment hotel at the Strand end of the Aldwych central island, on the site of the old Gaiety theatre, came to nothing. So too did my attempts to find out what is happening on the Kingsway corner plot that Bank restaurant used to occupy - now nothing more then a propped-up facade. I had some nice times in Bank, and mourn its passing, although I enjoy the sight of the sky and of the warehouse stylishly converted by Zeev Aram into the Aram Store revealed by the now-gutted building. One of the plus points of London's ever-changing landscape is the reappearance of sudden, unexpected, often temporary views. Like the novel feeling of openness and airiness over St Giles when the former MOD buildings off New Oxford St were demolished. Or the broad vista of the park revealed when Bowater House on Scotch Corner was pulled down. (Don't much like the look of the Candy Bros/Rogers development that's been slowly going up in its place and impeding my journey to work on a weekdaily basis, but at least it looks like the more-money-than-sense apartments will be porous, offering views of the park. Though I presume a road will no longer run through it. And I wonder what has happened/will happen to Jacob Epstein's magnificent sculpture, A Rush of Green, that used to be marooned between the traffic lanes running through Bowater house - and which, if viewed from a certain angle, seemed to depict a certain specialist sex act between two figures in the group). So if anyone can enlighten me about what's happening on the old Bank and Gaiety sites, or what's happened to Rush of Green, I'd be grateful.

- Talking of that whole Drury Lane/St Giles/Holborn area - a bit of London which fascinates me - I was on Great Queen St last night and tested the theory that it's good to eat spicy food in hot weather. Moti Mahal had invited me along... aha, hahaha, not just me, of course... to try out their new Grand Trunk Road menu of dishes sourced from along the titular highway. I am not, quite, yet, in that class of journalist that would go to the opening of a wound, but I have, also, never been known to refuse food. The menu really is rather wonderful, pitched and priced midway the best local curry house in your area and the overly delicate, refined and expensive flavours of fine subcontinental dining places like the Cinammon Club. Ann and I were far more taken than we had remotely expected to be by the Qabali Seviyan, vermicelli and Masala chicken baked in an egg custard, which tastes far better than it sounds. I also liked the robust flavouring and succulent consistency of both the Murghi Nazakat (chicken pieces separately marinated in mint, chilli and dill, and served - gimmickily but charmingly - in their own mini-Tandoori oven) and the chilli-soused Barra Peshawari lamb chops. The nans were the lightest I've ever had, the DIY salad a nice touch if a bit of a faff, the Mojioto-style pre-dinner cocktails rendered punchy by a belt of chili. We liked the visible chef's kitchen with its beaten brass walls and the air conditioning definitely helped on a sweltering night. Oh, and be warned: we were advised to order four dishes each but three would have sufficed. Outside, I gawped again at the massive Masonic Temple of Great Queen St, which I once went inside - to watch a semi-staged production of the musical Camelot starring Paul Nicholas and Jason Donovan, of all things. I wish I'd paid more attention then, as it seems now increasingly strange that this bonkers sect could erect such a vast, mock-Egyptian monolith in the centre of town. My great-uncle Edmund was a Mason, but his older brother, my grandfather, was not, despite being a surveyor and therefore, you would think, a prime candidate for recruitment. I like to think he was approached and spurned them. At my grandfather's funeral, Edmund's wife Gertrude questioned my and my sister's paternity: this probably did more to tarnish Masonry in my eyes than any daft conspiracy theories. That and the fact that a huge crowd of them were faffing around on Long Acre a week or so ago when I was trying to get to a pub.

- I've been having physio at St Thomas's hospital recentlyand I think the NHS is brilliant.