Once upon a time, to be in a possession of a pair of Manolo Blahnik men’s shoes was to be a member of a particularly rarified group. Over the years the celebrated designer has shod numerous famous friends (Mick Jagger, David Hockney, Bryan Ferry – the Three Graces of Seventies and Eighties Brit cool) and the odd shop assistant (I bumped into fellow designer Nick Ashley recently, who was still wearing the cowhide Chelsea boots his former boss had made for him 30 or more years before).

But for male mere mortals? Well, let’s just say those lucky enough to be kept abreast of the maestro’s work have generally been informed during long hours spent in his 17 stores worldwide, whilst females friends exulted in all that colour and creativity.

No longer: Blahnik has at last committed to shoeing the male foot, big time. And to prove his commitment to the project he’s opened a dedicated men’s store next door to his current West End premises in Burlington Arcade. It houses three floors full of styles, from multi-hued Oxford brogues (dubbed the Witney) to hand-woven Moroccan slippers fit to step out into the Saharan sun (although, if you did, you might prefer the Fes style, a hand-dyed raffia desert boot like no other).  

In keeping with male trends in toe-coverings, there’s Moccasin-style loafer, obviously, a Sixties-inspired, single-laced derby he’s christened the Rory; there’s even the great man’s take on the ‘luxury sneaker’ – in his hands a whole-cut shoe that incorporates a slim synthetic sole (it’s called the Entrendaor).

And Manolo’s largesse doesn’t end there. In addition to the wide range of styles (mostly handmade in Italy, using a variety of construction methods depending on their design) there’s the store itself.

Designed by the company’s long-standing architect, Nick Leith-Smith, it retains several key features of the arcade’s Victorian heritage, making a feature of the snaking staircase that carries clients across its three tiny floors, whilst adding a touch of mid-century modern in fittings and features redolent of the Italian designer Gio Ponti.

It’s an inspiring environment into which Blahnik will likely welcome many more illustrious friends (recently, he’s collaborated with LVMH Prize winner Grace Wales Bonner and Georgian fashion phenomenon Demna Gvasalia) but its scale and sophistication will appeal to a far broader clientele. The designer has a sixth sense for fit and feel, and men are now privy to his ability with colour and proportion like never before.

The clack of their claws on the platter draws me back to the reality that these are not gladiators destined to battle to the death on a bloody amphitheatre floor, but the scampi who will provide the third act of my dinner. I feel a pang of guilt as I dispatch the two suggested gentlemen to the kitchen, and their dooms. It is a momentary emotion, replaced by a glass of malvasia and Daniela’s reassurance. “The scampi from Kvarner are perfect,” she stresses. “There is just the right level of saltiness in the water, just the right amount of photosynthesis. They don’t have the hard shells of North Sea scampi. They are delicious.”

She isn’t wrong. When the two condemned crustaceans reappear, they do so as pure curls of pale flesh, served entirely raw, with a dash of white pepper. They are among the most remarkable things I have ever tasted – redolent of the sea, but also of a freshness that seems to melt into the tongue. I relax – certain that I have fully appreciated their sacrifice.

They are, though, only one of the delights placed before me at Plavi Podrum, a restaurant on the harbour in the fishing village of Volosko. It looks like any Mediterranean eatery, tables on a veranda opposite boats bobbing in the shallows. But it reveals itself as a haven of gourmet magic – helmed by Daniela, its owner and expert sommelier. Over two hours, there are portions of marinated red mullet, wild asparagus soup, and linguine with Istrian black truffles. 

Even the olive oil is a miracle. “This,” she says, plucking a thin green bottle like an apothecary in a Victorian pharmacy, “is from Vodnjan, near Pula. They only pick from olive trees that are more than 100 years old.”

In some ways, it is no shock to find food of such finesse here. Volosko is pitched roughly where the Gulf of Kvarner cleaves the Istrian peninsula from the rest of Croatia. It lies just over 40 miles (60km) south east of Trieste, Italy – a country whose gastronomic flair needs no explanation. 

Indeed, between the world wars, Volosko was in Italy – a fair portion of Daniela’s clientele is still Italian diners driving into “the old country” for the evening. But increasingly, Croatia needs no overspill illumination from its near-neighbour on culinary matters. It shines of its own brilliance.

Last autumn, a restaurant in Rovinj, in Istria, gained the country’s first Michelin star. It won’t be the last.

Not that there is much obvious foodie refinement when I drive to Rijeka. The focal point of the Kvarner region will be a European Capital of Culture in 2020. But on this warm Friday, there is no time for artistic ideals. Only work. Containers are spilled on the dock, and the fish market has been hard at it since dawn. 

It is still in labour as I try to push through the crowd of shoppers assessing slabs of skate, dorada and tuna. Too busy, in fact, and I escape into Fiume, an eatery which wears Rijeka’s former Italian name – where my early lunch is more like dinner for the servers, who have been catering to stallholders since first light. 

It is marvellous all the same – a bowl of marinated octopus and shrimp on a bed of rice blackened by cuttlefish ink, so hearty that I fear I will not need to eat again all week.