The idea came to me as I sat in the cinema watching the new version of Oliver Twist, Dickens’s classic tale of the orphan cast adrift in a world of adult cruelty. When starving in the workhouse, he famously gathers his courage, lifts his eyes and asks for more gruel. It dawned on me then how fundamental the idea of ‘just a little bit more’ was to our everyday eating experience. I wouldn’t, for example, be the strapping lad I am without the benefit of Mum’s second helpings.

And, I wondered, did this simple principle hold as true in the capital’s poshest eateries – renowned for their high prices and measly portions – as it did at kitchen tables up and down the country? As a 21st Century Oliver, armed with nothing but a restaurant guide and a credit card, I set off to find out.

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I began at Le Gavroche, the Mecca for all moneyed lovers of French food, founded by brothers Albert and Michel Roux in the Sixties. Trying not to betray my amazement at the prices on the menu – the ragout of oysters clocked in at a cool £28.20, and that was only a starter – I settled on the saddle of rabbit. At a mere £29.80 it almost seemed like good value, although the portion was hardly huge. As I ate, I glanced around anxiously, waiting for the perfect moment to make my request.

But in the sepulchral atmosphere, the waiters whispering like monks and pouring wine as though it were holy water, I felt intimidated. However, I was still peckish.

With my hands shaking and my heart racing, I caught the eye of the maitre d’.

My mouth went dry as he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Can I help monsieur?’ ‘Er, yes, no, I was wondering … ‘ He smiled and leant in towards me, as if humouring a toddler.

‘Yeeees?’ ‘ … If I could have some m… ‘ He cocked his head slightly, narrowed his eyes. ‘Yeeees?’

‘… Mayonnaise.’ ‘Mayonnaise?’ I lowered my eyes and nodded. He seemed sceptical. ‘Monsieur is certain?’

‘Quite certain.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Very well.’ Within a moment, a perfectly presented dollop of mayonnaise sat before me. With the maitre d’ now watching intently from a distance, I had to try some. But he was right to be doubtful: it didn’t go with my pudding. In the end, I bottled it, leaving the restaurant without having had the courage to stand up for my principles.

Still, I told myself, the Roux family are old-school. They wouldn’t have understood. The newer generation of celebrity chefs would be more in touch with my demands.

And surely nobody more so than the Pukka Pieman himself, Jamie Oliver? So my next call was to Fifteen, made famous by the TV programme Jamie’s Kitchen, in which he took a group of dissolute youths and transformed them into top cooks.

Fifteen is a charitable trust with a percentage of its income going to good causes. When you call to make a reservation, you’re treated to a recorded message from Oliver offering you ‘big love’ and telling you that forking out at his restaurant is actually a philanthropic gesture.

I would put these charitable instincts to the test by seeing how sympathetic Fifteen would be to a seriously hungry boy prepared to hold up his plate and beg for more.

The diver-caught Scottish scallops seared in sage and capers with lentils and carciofi were a snip at £25 a plate. Although the scallops were delicious, there were just three, working out at £8 each. I thought I’d see what extra I could get. I asked the blackclad waitress if there were any more to be had.

‘I’ll have to ask the kitchen,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

She broke the news to one of the chefs. ‘Geezer wants to know if he can have more scallops.’

‘What geezer?’ he snapped. She pointed me out.

I slunk down into the banquette. Maybe one of Jamie’s apparently reformed tearaways might revert to type and take me round the back for extras of a different kind. But no, after a few moments the waitress came back to tell me the good news that more were being prepared.

I was eventually the grateful recipient of two more scallops. The fact that they were noticeably smaller than the ones I’d already scoffed couldn’t diminish my sense of achievement. And fair play to Jamie: he didn’t charge me any more.

Buoyed by my success, I felt confident in taking on another star of the catering firmament. Gary Rhodes’ website declares that ‘a history of stunning

restaurants has won him a constellation of Michelin stars and he is consistently revered by his peers as truly ‘The Chef’s Chef’. Would the hospitality match the hype?

The modestly titled Rhodes W1 is part of the Cumberland Hotel, close to Marble Arch. Gary likes to keep his cooking close to home; the spiky-haired self-publicist can often be heard trumpeting traditional British standards in the kitchen. And what could be more British than a dollop of second helpings?

I ordered monkfish and chomped my way through the rubbery flesh. Actually, the last thing I wanted was more of it, but I was committed to my experiment. Besides, the place was empty; it wasn’t as if they had anything else to do. I summoned the waiter. As he picked up my plate, I popped the question: ‘Actually, could I have some more of that please?’

A puzzled look crossed his face. He cocked his head slightly. ‘Sorry?’ he said with a heavy Mediterranean accent.

‘Some more of that?’ I repeated. ‘Some marrow fat?’ His failure to understand didn’t seem to be solely

The hilarious tale of what happened when our 21st Century Oliver Twist asked for second helpings in some of Britain’s most exclusive restaurants – where famously fiery chefs rule the kitchens … down to the throbbing pulse of the piped music.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You know, extra portion?’

His brow furrowed tighter. ‘Eggs abortion?’

‘Forget it. Just get me the bill.’ Still he hesitated. ‘La cuenta, por favor?’ I asked. That did the trick. Yes, I mused as my latter-day Manuel shuffled off to the till. Very British, very traditional.

Next up was a table at one of the hottest spots in London. Locanda Locatelli, owned by Georgio Locatelli, is possibly the premier purveyor of top-class Italian cuisine in town.

I inspected another wallet-whacking menu, plumping for venison medallions, served with porcini, fried cream and radicchio. When it came, my £28 had bought me only two medallions, so I felt asking for another wasn’t too outrageous.

I beckoned over the waiter, a reedy-looking Italian with sideburns and slicked-back hair.

‘Do you think it might be possible I might get a bit extra please?’

He looked at me as if I had made some unspeakable suggestion regarding his mother. A few hushed conversations later and I had the ingratiating head waiter bearing down on me.

‘They tell me you wanna some more . . ?’ Did I hear some Godfather music in the pause? ‘OK. I bringa you some more,’ he said with a perfunctory smile.

Easy, I thought. That’ll be the famous Italian generosity. With much ceremony, evidently designed to expose the extent of my gluttony to the other diners, I was given new cutlery and after a short wait, another medallion was brought to me, with all the trimmings.

Slowly but surely, I saw it off. I’d proved it again. If you had what it took, you could get a little more of what you fancied and at least go some way to improving the value for money at these exorbitant restaurants. So when the bill came, I was surprised to see an unspecified entry for £14.

‘You have another medallion, so we charge you half again. It’s a no problem, si?’ the head waiter asked, hinting it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I made my escape and hoped for better things the following day.

Mirabelle is one of a number of interests held by Marco Pierre White, the first enfant terrible of British gastronomy.

For once, I was impressed by the prices: the three-course set lunch was a distinctly reasonable £21, but when I asked for a little more partridge to supplement the small cut I’d been given, they brought out a complete new portion and charged me a further £10.50.

With customer service like that, perhaps it was no surprise that the place was empty, with all the atmosphere of a morgue on a Bank Holiday Monday.

Locanda Locatelli and Mirabelle had been enlightening experiences as to where the priorities of great restaurateurs really lie. But even so, I knew I had saved my ultimate test for last.

As I entered the Art Deco splendour of London’s legendary Claridge’s Hotel and headed towards the restaurant that bears his name, I girded my loins for a confrontation with none other than the potty-mouthed King of the Culinary Jungle himself: Gordon Ramsay. Surely he, with his notorious contempt for the dining public, wouldn’t stand for an upstart like me condemning his paltry portions?

I read the elaborate lunch menu with a growing sense of discomfort. I was tiring of this kind of food; the thought of another amuse-bouche just wasn’t funny.

I was longing for good oldfashioned egg and chips as, heavyeyed, I plumped for the homely simplicity of West Country pork cheeks cooked in honey and cloves, grain m u s t a r d pomme mousseline and braising juices, as part of a £60 set lunch. It tasted wonderful but was difficult to enjoy as I thought of the Herculean trial awaiting.

My waitress, a sweet French girl, arrived at the table and made to remove my plate. I took a deep breath and leapt straight in.

‘Can I have some more please?’ She was rocked back on her heels. A look of panic flashed across her face. ‘What? Really?’

It seemed nobody had had the temerity to make such a request before. I held my nerve, nodding sternly. She gulped. ‘I will have to ask the chef.’ Oh my God.

I watched her disappear into the kitchen, a lamb to the slaughter. From behind the doors there was a moment of silence then what sounded like a clatter of pans. My heart pounded. I fought the urge to do a runner.

Then, after a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, the doors burst open and out stepped the waitress carrying a small dish and looking mightily relieved.

‘Compliments of the chef,’ she told me, lifting the lid and showing me my prized second helpings. Even better, at no extra cost.

Ordeal over, I ate with satisfaction, basking in my new-found status as the man who tamed the beast of Hell’s Kitchen; who had blazed a trail of consumer rights in London’s top restaurants, showing there is no reason to fear these cordon-bleu bullies. If I could do it, then so could anybody else.

My smugness lasted until I calculated the total cost of my experiment: my six meals, with a partner, had cost more than £1,000.

Twice I’d been forced to pay more for the privilege of a second helping. In return for my investment, I had won myself the grand total of three pork morsels and two midget-sized scallops.

The reality is clear. The chefs are still the ones having the last laugh, all the way to the bank. But then Oliver Twist didn’t get much either.