The simple reason buffets light up a room is this: you are providing guests with a tiny dopamine shot from a point in life they were happiest; running into a brilliant birthday party aged five; their granny's Boxing Day open house; the best Eid get-together of their teen years.

All friendship groups divide into two halves: moody ex-goths who don't mind summer lunch indoors while sipping ice-cold pastis with damp backs-of-knees; and those Club Tropicana types who call ahead to jostle for the one terrace table that's in direct sunlight and from which you'll be lucky to leave with any skin left on your shoulders.

Some foodie types are snobbish about the microwave; I see it as a loyal friend who has had my back for over 30 years.

I gave up eating outdoors in London in the 1990s, when it became impossible to eat at an outside table without a small gang of buskers turning up to play a rousing chorus of 'La Bamba' on their accordions while you waved off hornets with the menu.

Everybody you meet, when you're a restaurant critic, tells you they'd love to be your dinner companion.

I love the Tower of London, but it is not a feel-good day out - unlike time spent eating beef biang biang or slurping a bean thread noodle and seaweed soup.