Dinner in St Petersburg – Guest Reviewer, Binkie Johnston

We first encountered my ancestor Binkie Johnston four years ago when we published his account of the last meal served from the First Class kitchen of the Titanic. Many of you assumed he had perished: some were kind enough to send condolences. I did drop a hint that we might not have heard the last of him.

I was never entirely sure what his profession was, but he did crop up a lot in circles of power. The UK Ambassador George Buchanan wrote extensively of his experiences in Russia in July 1914, but there is no mention of Binkie. I suspect he must have had some sort of secret role. His own diaries are silent on what he did for a living. What we do know is that he was a great gourmet with a near total recall of many of the memorable meals he had enjoyed.

Took me a while to get over the events of April '12. I can still feel the icy cold of the north Atlantic water, and hear the screams of the dying. But I said to myself, pull yourself together, Binkie. King and Country call. But come the summer of 1914, I had an uneasy feeling. I have a highly developed nose. I can sniff out trouble as surely as I can tell when Escoffier's Veal Prince Orloff is on the menu. At the end of JuIy I got a telegram requesting my presence forthwith at Number 10. When Asquith calls, you don't dilly dally.

- I'll get straight to the point, Johnston. Need you to go to Russia day after tomorrow. Passage all booked. We hear President Poincaré's going to schmooze the Tsar. Can't trust the Frogs. Need you to keep your eyes and ears open.

With horror it dawned on me that this would involve going back on a boat.

- But can't Buchanan look after it?

- Not possible. As our man in St Petersburg, he needs to be discreet.

 Then the blighter played his ace.

- Tsar Nicholas keeps a damn fine table. And I hear he's got a new chef. Just up your street, what?

I'll save you the horrors of the journey. I kept my eyes away from water, and consoled myself with the thoughts of meals I'd previously eaten in the Tsar's palace cooked by my pal, a little French genius name of Pierre Cubat. I knew he was being paid £2000 (yes, TWO GRAND!) a year. Couldn't believe it when I heard he'd quit.

-Monsieur Beenkie, he told me, tears in his eyes, they never leave me alone. Every time I add salt or herbs, the man's bodyguards make me eat two spoonfuls. No money or prestige can make me suffer such 'umiliation for one second more.

So I get to the Embassy and Buchanan briefs me. You will know that some damn Serb has murdered Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Austro-Hungary. We're desperate to prevent a war: the Russkies are up for one, and want to make sure the French are onside. What better way to the heart of a French President than through his stomach? We're invited to lunch (though they call it Dîner) on 9 July.

-But, Buchanan, that was 10 days ago! We've missed it.

-They still use the Julian calendar here, old chap. It would take a revolution to get them to change.

So on the 22 July, our time, we board a launch out to Peterhof, the Summer Palace on the Gulf of Finland. We know how much of a mess the politics turned out, so let's stick to the food.

Not a memsahib in sight. Chaps only, at small tables. Dashed hot outside, but a lovely cooling breeze from the water.

Cream of cauliflower to start. Bit of a sly dig at a Republican like Poincaré, I thought, naming it after a French King's mistress. But chef's brought the menu straight back home. Don't be fooled by the petits pȃtés malarkey. As Russian as they come. Little pies or piroshki to go with the soup. Nicholas could live on them.

Then the big production number. Five chaps carrying a gold salver bearing the biggest sturgeon you ever saw, poached and stuffed with all sorts of fine things, crayfish tails, olives, gherkins and the like. After that the beef was a bit of anti climax. Cooked in Trappist beer with leeks apparently, though a nice cheffy finish with a demi-glace glaze.

Cold chicken and salad was rather better for the weather, but not sure what Chef Kharitonov was thinking about with the Polish connection. Red cabbage and chestnuts - in July? Bad form, I would say.

Got confused with the timbale. Type of cooking tin, isn't it? Ah, this one was stuffed with a brioche positively soaking in rum, with some nice summer fruit. Prefer the yeastiness of a traditional baba, myself, but not too shabby.

I suppose there was lots to chat about afterwards, and soldiers to inspect and all that guff, but I was still peckish. Snuck into the kitchen and bade a cheery halloo to Chef Ivan. Decided not to mention the red cabbage and came out with a bag of piroshki for later. Now that's what I call diplomacy.