But apart from a single nod to second-wave feminism, the last three decades have had no discernible impact. "It's a bit, erm, clubland, isn't it?" sniffed Alistair, playing his usual role of hip young dude pincered by fogeys. You wouldn't accuse this menu of being overly concerned with vogue. You would not. On the front of the said menu is a Bateman cartoon of a red-faced chap flinging his knife skywards in outrage at "the gentleman who asked the carver whether the meat was foreign or English." This reminded me of an etiquette conundrum that urgently needed resolving. "How much," I asked the table, "do you tip the carver these days?" "Half a dollar," replied Robin. Alarmingly for an accountant, he appears yet to come to term with this new-fangled decimal currency. Though it may have gone up since I last ate here, I suppose. He supposed right, but before coming to that rite of passage (tipping a carver had been an ambition of mine for a long time), we had set about a deliciously elderflowery Kentish white called Bacchus Reserve - no fancy foreign wines for us, not here - and the starters. No one acquainted with sanity would come to Simpson's for a ground-breaking gastronomic experience. This is high-class comfort food, by and large executed well. Potted salmon had "a nice gentle flavour," while smoked salmon was "adequate, though no better than Tesco's Finest." My roast wood pigeon breast came properly pink, with beans and lardons, though the winner by a country mile was my dad's "seasonal creamed mushrooms," served in crispy brioche buns. "Exceptionally good," he said - and at £14, so it bleedin" well should have been. Only once the plates had been removed did things take a turn. A female diner mildly reminiscent of Dustin Hoffman's Tootsie ridiculed this faddish concept of unisex dining by taking to the piano to play Happy Birthday. I asked a waiter if she took requests. I do not know, sir, but I will ask. What is your request? That she cease and desist playing, immediately. Far from either desisting or ceasing, she then dipped into the music-hall repertoire with Roll Out the Barrel - eschewing Let's All Go Down the Strand for some reason. Calves" liver was "tender and really good," according to my father, while Alistair dismissed his shepherd's pie as "a grown-up school dinner. Fine but not brilliant. Robin described his beef wellington as "very nice." Might he be a shade more precise, I wondered, as if completing a VAT return? It's very nice. I had the roast rib of beef with all the trimmings, and tipped the carver £4 - double what we were told is the going rate, and sufficient to secure a bonus third slice of meat that was correctly rare, if not the meltiest or most flavoursome. Electing not to "ave a banana, we enjoyed some faultless puds - sticky toffee pudding and plum cobbler with orange ice cream - and we might have stayed for ages over coffee had Tootsie not launched an unprovoked assault on The Girl From Ipanema. "I think it's very sweet that a guest can perform like this," said my dad when I moaned. Do you really? I snapped, with perhaps less filial reverence than was his due. In that case, I'm going to do a 20-minute set telling my smuttiest Northern club comic jokes. "Definitely time for the bill," he said. 100 Strand, London WC2R 0EW, 020 7836 9112; Simpson's in the Strand. Three courses with wine and coffee: about £75per head