St Benedicts Restaurant, St Benedicts St.

1 June 2007

The massively pregnant Sloane and her husband had stolen our table. This was particularly galling – it was *our* table, and we had specifically booked it. OK, so we’d only ever sat there a couple of times over the last four years or so, but still, I felt we had a claim.

I am, however, a true gent, and avoided a scene by simply harrumphing under my breath and looking momentarily unsettled, before sitting a few feet away.

‘I *am* heavily pregnant, you know,’ she announced at the end of each course, clearly believing the staff to be both blind and stupid. Pregnancy was also the basis for her complaining about each dish, with logic as sound as ‘I can’t eat this! I have a yacht!’ At least her pinot grigio was agreeable.

Despite this, we were not about to let our anniversary be spoiled by furniture annexation and horsey claptrap. Neither were we going to be upset by the middle-aged chap and his well-heeled strumpet kicking up stink and walking out after their drinks hadn’t arrived within five minutes of arrival. We were going to enjoy ourselves even if we were to be the only happy clientele that evening.

The fried goat cheese starter was unapologetically good, but the slice of delicious plump-breasted pigeon was exceptional – seared outside, but raw ruddy-pink and tender within, like the inside of an infant’s cheek.

At this point I should stress that I do not, and never have eaten *any* part of an infant. Eating children is illegal – even in France.

The pigeon was a tough act to follow, and so the duck and merguez main course, though perfectly competent, were almost a let down by comparison. Much like the man in *my* chair, haggling down his bill, it was also a bit too rich and greasy for my taste.

An extra long pause was required before cramming down the champagne cheesecake and rhubarb, followed by the cheese plate. We waddled off a few calories on the way home, possibly enough to offset the petit fours that came with the coffee.

Waking up at about 1AM, it occurred to me that the massive ingestion of dairy produce wasn’t going to do our cholesterol levels any favours. It certainly wasn’t good for the bedroom’s air quality either – it smelled like we were sleeping in a methane capsule. Who says romance is dead?

Eat here: but not at my table
Keywords: cheese