It is fairly apparent that the markets are now well on their way to recovery. The deeply conservative basement that serves as Le Gavroche's dining room is packed on a Tuesday lunch time, and Taks and I manage to bring the average age down to 50.
His calamari risotto is a lie worthy of Michael Caine in Alfie... charming, disarming and begging to be believed.... the most deliciously roasted calamari sat atop a bed of squid ink drenched orzo. Sumptuous. My hot foie gras with duck pancake flavoured with a cinnamon touched reduction is perfectly offset by an unexpected sweet red wine, which is now a distant memory...... Michel Roux comes around to ask how the meal was, and my erstwhile ever pompous companion goes on about the sugar he can taste in the souffle.....!
The conversation takes a turn for the S&M, and I am prepared to swear the white haired lady directly in my line of sight is a dominatrix of the extreme kind, with the basement in her manor strewn with wicked implements of torture. Taks refuses to admit that the octogenarian might actually look fetching in leather, but does accept she probably knows how to wield a riding crop like few others.... but I have to concur with his assessment that this really isn't a very good place to pick up chicks.
Two and a half hours later, I am replete, bordering on the very 'I feel sick', and Nana and her friends are looking more and more appealing to my companion....Check please!
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