Yesterday was our anniversary. We took the day off: ten whole hours without screens and keyboards and connectivity.
So what did we do with our in-the-real-world day? We spent it entirely on pleasure.
We had a three-hour lunch. It began with a French 75, a Parisian cocktail named after a WWI cannon: gin, champagne, Cointreau and a spiral of orange peel. It kicked the lunch off with a bang. Then we chose a ’98 Pio Cesare Barolo. We love the Piedmontese, and this was a stellar example. Our waiter went into paroxysms of ecstasy when he decanted it, practically gyrating with joy, raving about the nose and the colour. He wasn’t wrong. We sat in that sunny room and drank it slowly and it opened like a grave and wondrous flower.
We ate a wild mushroom soup with haricots vert, wild huckleberry coulis and toasted French almonds. Then roast leg of lamb with red rocket onion, baby carrot, and some kind of pureed squash. Then the best crepes I’ve ever had: filled with a kind of smooth, slightly citrus custard, drizzled with chocolate, decorated with perfect–and I mean perfect–blackberries and ginger orange coulis. With fresh whipped cream.
The sun was bright, but there was a wind with an edge to it, and those little scudding cotton wool clouds–a September day, with the taste of end-of-summer. A day to remember.