RUTH SUNDERLAND: Why I fear the Wolseley restaurant will be turned into a bland global chain

Everything about The Wolseley restaurant, from the ornate black and gold wrought-iron displays above the windows to its imposing facade on London‘s Piccadilly, exudes grandeur and spectacle.

From the moment a diner steps through the heavy brass portal, often greeted by door-person Helen Scott, immaculate in her black coat and hat, they know they are about to experience something very special.

Customers are ushered across the black and white tiled floor to their table, accompanied by the sound of tinkling silver cutlery.

On any given day, the hubbub will include City panjandrums, celebrities and a sprinkling of awestruck tourists.

Idiosyncratic, theatrical, traditional with a twist of camp, the Wolseley is the quintessence of all that is glorious about London’s best restaurants.

Which is why so many habitues are horrified at the thought of it being snatched away from Jeremy King, the man…