The establishment's establishment

I walk past a pair of parked Rollers (3JW and DON II) into the Savoy Grill. The maître d' shows me to my table with quiet, smiling courtesy. Unfortunately, my girlfriend hasn't arrived yet - she's interviewing a sex worker about crack addiction in Brixton. Truth be told, we're not regulars at the Savoy. Still, I've remembered my tie, and feel good in my suit.

I explain my predicament to the wine waiter. He smiles, and accommodates. "A glass of champagne while you're waiting, sir?" He's very handsome, with short black hair and dressed in a DJ. All the waiters are very handsome, with short black hair. Sideburns seem regulated, as in the army - half an inch down the ear, then mercilessly chopped.

The Savoy stands to the side of the Strand, both discreet and glitzy. It is one of London's plushest hotels (from £149 a night for a single room to £1,620 a night for a suite). The Grill, inside the hotel, is the traditional home of the power lunch and supper. According to the Savoy's own book, Savoy London, every prime minister of the the recent past has made it their eating club. The Savoy Grill is the establishment's establishment. Indeed, it's so establishment that it has become too establishment for its owners, who have decided to close it down for a while to tart it up.

To the side of the table is a serviette crammed with peculiar toast - like razored Sunblest. I look through the menu. The half-dozen native oysters from Ireland (£17.50) look tempting. As does the beluga caviar (£60). I'm starving, so I tuck into the toast. I pick it up and it crumbles. I try to butter it, and it crumbles some more. I feel self-conscious. I'm facing a row of identikit diners - middle-aged men (squat, bulldog neck, boot-polish hair) and women (squat, bulldog neck, white hair). They don't seem to have much to say to each other. Instead, they eat and stare at me. I think.

A waiter arrives. He looks at the crumbs scattered on the table. He is perplexed. "Sir, you are going to wait for the other person to join you?" I'm not sure if it's a question or statement. My mouth is full, so my answer comes out as an incoherent spray. "There is someone, isn't there, sir?" I'm beginning to feel inadequate. He leaves me to the toast.

My phone rings. It's Diane. Her woman hasn't turned up yet. She says I should press ahead with starters. A new waiter appears with another urbane smile. "Excuse me, sir, there are no phones in here, sir." Oh, sorry, I say. I explain my predicament and ask if I can order my hors d'oeuvre.

I decide on the foie gras ballotine filled with dry fruits and nuts, cooked in sea salt (£18.50), and tell the waiter that I am ready to order. He nods his approval of my choice, and tells me that if I'm going to be sensible about it, I'll also want a glass of sweet wine, which takes the starter up to roughly £30, but I want to do it properly.

The foie gras is gorgeous: it melts in my mouth, leaving the nuts to chew on. Best paté I've ever had. It comes with a crisp salad - and toast, of course. The sweet wine, coupled with my innate paranoia, is going to my head. The Savoy is beginning to oppress me. The ceiling is so low, the oak panelling so heavy. Somehow Giorgio Locatelli has taken a similar 1970s look and turned it into something light, retro-chic and sexy. Here it feels miserable. No wonder they are revamping.

It is a bit like being at the theatre, watching my three sets of identikit diners. But the actors have turned the tables on me. They look conspiratorial, as if they have stepped out of a George Grosz painting. It is Valentine's Day, but there is nothing romantic about their arrangement, nothing warm, no sense of occasion.

The waiter arrives to clear my ashtray. It's a wonderful trick - place one ashtray on top of the other and suddenly the first one disappears. I ask him what he'll be doing when the Grill closes for refurbishment. He says that the Savoy may want him to work elsewhere in the chain, but he will certainly be returning to Italy for a couple of weeks. Most of the waiters here are Italian, while most of the kitchen staff are English.

How will the Grill change? Well, he says, it's going to be lighter and brighter, and there will be a new chef, Gordon Ramsay partner Marcus Wareing, but it's not going to be as radical as has been suggested in the press because, ultimately, people visit the Savoy for its traditions.

Diane arrives. It's freezing outside, and she is streaming with cold. The waiter asks whether he can get her anything. "Have you got a hot water bottle?" she asks. "Erm, no," he says, with a confused smile. "Could I have a cup of Earl Grey tea, then please?"

We decide on the main course - Dover sole for her (£27), and venison steak with braised red cabbage and Anna potatoes with plum sauce (£26.50) for me.

I nip to the loo, which is a splendid and disconcerting affair. The latrines are marbled and polished so bright that you can't help but watch yourself going about your business. The second I finish washing my hands, the attendant pops a towel in my hands. I then feel something tickling up and down my shoulders. In the mirror, I see he is brushing my jacket. We start talking. He's a lovely man. I ask him if he enjoys his job at the Savoy. Yes, he says, it's fine, but it's not very good for the old brain. He tells me that he is a qualified holistic and sports therapist.

"Well, they're taking their time with the Earl Grey," Diane says when I get back. She is the kind of woman who likes to get things done fast.

"That's because we're here to enjoy the experience, the ambience, the surroundings," I say. "Phhrrmph!" she says. "Dark in here, isn't it? It's so beige. And everyone looks overfed. Not well fed, just overfed."

The sole arrives. It's tepid and tasteless. Perhaps it's been sitting in the kitchen too long waiting for the accompaniments. Perhaps not - there are none. The venison arrives. I can't wait - I love that strong, earthy flavour. But all I can taste is the soft, creamy potato and red cabbage. Perhaps my palate isn't sufficiently refined.

The maître d' arrives. He's so charming that I find myself telling him it is all lovely. He tells me he has worked here for 20 years, and will be coming in most days during the closure because he doesn't like the thought of being away. Are many of the customers regulars? "Oh yes," he says. "For some people it's just like a staff canteen."

The desert trolley has been easing its way round the Grill all night. The cakes look nice - they make me feel nostalgic for the early 70s, when my parents took me to the Kardomah Cafe in Manchester for a treat. But I feel spooked. It's not the staff or the maître d' - we've got on fine since the telephone issue. It's the claustrophobia. The oak walls seem to be closing in on us. I feel that the other diners have seen past my suit, straight into my pocket and soul.

A broad, confident man walks by and stops at our table. "Do we know each other?" he asks. "No, I don't think so," I quiver.

"I'm a friend of Alexandra Shulman who runs Vogue." "Oh, I work for the Guardian newspaper," I say.

He scours my face. "Well, there we are..." and before I can say anything, he walks away muttering. "Well, there we are..."

I don't know what I've done to offend him, but I'm sure I have offended him somehow. We decide to give the dessert trolley a miss.

· The Savoy Grill refurbishment is scheduled to take six to eight weeks. For information, call the Savoy Hotel on 020-7836 4343.