Ian wrote yesterday about the New Piccadilly Cafe in Denman Street. By Jove, he's right, you know. The place is a retro gem, an old-time 50s Soho caff straight out of Absolute Beginners. The place is a formica-spotter's dream: wood grain, marble effect, canvas texture, grey, yellow and burgundy.

The New Piccadilly keeps the aspidistra flying. Stewards in starched white uniforms with jolly red epaulets gilde unctuously among the potted palms. As many mustaches as an 80s night at a Polish gay bar. The raffish rake manning the till, with greying quiff and RAF tache - why it's Leslie Phillips, surely? The menu boasts of its genuine fifties fare, as though a return to the days of rationing were a benefit. I had a serviceable steak, egg and chips, and managed to resist the steamed puddings on the dessert menu. The two chaps at the table next to mine called a waiter over and, giggling, said "can we have two of those, please?" "Certainly sir, two spotted dicks on table eight."

It's all a million miles from the slick gay Soho of today. However, here's a thing: The wall behind the till is a collage of once-garish postcards, presumably sent by satisfied customers or vacationing waiters. One of the cards has fallen off, leaving a space through which can be seen what I assume is an ancient ad for the Denman Hotel. But all one can see are the words: "MAN HOT".