It starts with a profiterole of happiness. And finishes like this.
Food never made me cry before but food made me cry with happiness last night. We went to the only Michelin starred restaurant on the island for a slap up celebration. Once more sartorially I made a statement. This time with my red plastic flipflops accessorising my topshop satin number. But enough about fashion. This one’s about food. About food so good you don’t want to swallow. Food that makes you shudder from the inside.
It was all about balsamic jasmine reduction, vodka foam and guiness glaze. About milk-fed lamband citrus ceviche and spiced passion fruit broth.
‘What does Milk-Fed mean?’ I ask John, ‘is it opposed to the absinthe-fed lamb?’
‘It means it’s been pulled away from its mother,’ he says eyeing my plate with what looks suspiciously like food envy.
‘Shuttup shuttup shuttup’ I yell shovelling another tender morsel into my mouth
He tries the same with the rabbit, ‘Are you sure you’re happy that it’s got fois gras in it?’ he asks. I have always gallantly refused to touch fois gras (no problem with the milk-fed lamb though).
‘Fuck yeah,’ I reply swallowing mouthful after mouthful until there’s no more rabbit left. ‘I want to marry the chef. No offence. I want to divorce you and marry him.’
John isn’t offended because he wants to too.
‘It’s like watching another man take your wife for a spin and being totally ok with that,’ John remarks as I start groaning at the mangoustine sorbet with milk rice tuille. Again with the no swallowing.
‘I could die happy now.’ I say pouring the contents of my fifth glass of wine down my throat.
I have always said money isn’t important. That I don’t need to be rich. But I take it all back. I want to be rich. I want to eat here every day for the rest of my life. Forget new dresses. Give me food.