Back in the early 2000s, a three-hour lunch was considered a rather modest affair. I remember one spring afternoon when my colleague Simon Pennyworth and I were tasked with wooing a Scandinavian fund manager. He was the sort of chap who looked like he ironed his shoelaces, and it was our job to loosen him up a little. We booked a discreet French place near Bank, intending to charm him over sole meunière and a glass of Bordeaux. Routine stuff. At 1:30, he glanced at his watch and said he had to be back for a conference call at 2. Without missing a beat, I told him the markets would still be there at 3, whereas the 1989 vintage we'd just opened certainly wouldn't. He smiled, the first crack in his armour, and stayed put. Another bottle appeared shortly afterwards. Then another. By 4 the Armagnac arrived and the fund manager had removed his tie, undone his shirt and started singing a mournful folk ballad about herring. We were politely, though firmly, asked to leave. The next day, he sent over a signed contract, a crate of the same Armagnac and a short note. “Persuasive men make the best money managers.”