One of the nation's best-kept secrets was divulged to me over lunch at Simpson's-in-the-Strand yesterday. I started with the black pudding and saddle of rabbit, though I was mystified as to why anyone would want to saddle a rabbit, then followed with the roast beef from the trolley, hung by those splendid folk at Donald Russell for at least 28 days for supreme tenderness, and served with a home-made horseradish sauce plus all the usual trimmings.

I must confess I was enjoying the food so much that I did not even think to ask why I had been invited with such urgency to one of London's finest and most traditional restaurants. But then my host blurted it out.

"It's Elvis Presley," she said. "There was a message left on my phone. Apparently, Elvis has been working - in disguise, of course - in the kitchen of the Savoy Hotel for the past 12 years. That's all the caller said. Then he hung up. What am I to do?"

I pondered my reply over my final mouthfuls of beef and through Simpson's fabled treacle pudding and custard.

"Just leave it to me, I said, having cleaned the plate and decided on the best way forward. I put my plan into action as soon as I returned to the office and my over-filled stomach had subsided to comfortable proportions. With great trepidation, I lifted the telephone receiver to my ear and dialled.

"Would you put me through to the kitchens?" I asked when the call was answered. "It's a personal matter."

However, a suspicious voice asked who was calling when I asked for Mr Presley. "This is," I said imperiously in measured tones,"Beachcomber of the Daily Express," and before I knew it, a husky voice with a Southern accent came on the line.

"Mr Presley?" I asked. "Where have you been these last 30 years?"

"I found a new place to dwell," he said.

"Where precisely?" I asked

"It's down at the end of Lonely Street."

"But why?" I asked. "Why have you been hiding away? Don't you miss the adulation of the masses and the extravagance of your former life?"

"I get so lonely, baby," he revealed. "I get so lonely I could die."

"But why the Savoy?" I asked somewhat incredulously "I'd hardly have thought that was the sort of place a man of your-how should I put it? - modest origins would find very congenial."

He seemed put out by my reference to his early years.

"Well you can knock me down," he said angrily, "step in my face, slander my name all over the place."

"Yes, but the Savoy? For a start, its dress code must make it difficult for you to get through the front door" I ventured.

"Lay off my blue suede shoes," he said.

"I'm sorry," I replied, "but Elvis Presley in the Savoy kitchens seems incongruous. And in December, I'm told the Savoy is closing for 16 months to undergo a major refurbishment. What will you do then?"

"I'm moving on," he said. "Move on, baby. Move on."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I enquired. "I'm calling as a friend."

"Well, you ain't never caught a rabbit, and you ain't no friend of mine," he retorted before hanging up.

This was a shame, because I could have been in a position to arrange him a job as chief rabbit saddler at Simpson's.

Daily Express
30th August 2007

DAILY EXPRESS 30/08/07