"A hard roll makes me angry!" exclaimed Egon Ronay, as we snacked among wheeler-dealers in the Rib Room of the Hyatt Carlton, Knightsbridge, in 1995. "Nothing – not those nuts or these olives – has the right to be anything but bloody excellent."

They were, and Ronay relaxed into conversation, about the women in his life, including his wet nurse ("a simple peasant girl from the village, to whom I owe my sturdiness"). But what of his wife, Babs – how did she cope?

"When I proposed marriage to her, at a quiet romantic table with a bottle of champagne, she replied: "My God! I can't cook!" I replied: "Is that all you can say?" In the early days we slept in the corner of the room, her bed-side against the wall. And sometimes she'd jump over me, shouting: "Christ, I forgot to turn the marinade!"

But how do you rate her cooking? "It is well executed," he smiled. "Even if it wasn't, I wouldn't tell her. And as a guest at dinner parties I give rich praise, without exception. But I spent years developing ways of hiding un-eaten food under cutlery."

At the time we met, Ronay was 80 (he died last year)and he was heading the team inspecting every single food item at 135 catering outlets at seven BAA airports. He admitted he "felt sick" each time he opened his study door and saw the sheer amount of faxed reports rolling around on the carpet, which he'd have to read, edit, compile and then fax on to BAA management. He was regretful and bitter at having sold his Egon Ronay Guides; felt he had lost his name. "Once I was having lunch with a lady, having a difference of opinion, and she said 'But Egon Ronay says…', and I replied 'But you're talking to him', and she said 'No, I don't mean you, I mean in Egon Ronay'. It's traumatic."

After our rolls, olives nuts and coffees, he had to shop at M&S for ready-mades. Couldn't he pop into McDonald's on the way home? "I sometimes do, when I'm tired. Their chips are wonderful and their premium chicken sandwich is very good indeed."