You enter La Maison du Vin and, after some horse trading, during which you sign a legally binding agreement to name your firstborn son Jean-Paul, are seated at an acceptable table. An insufferable French waiter affects world-weary disdain as he forces you to read your ‘choices’ from the set menu. You order a round of bananaramas. They arrive in a pair of flamboyant, over-sized star-shaped glasses, looking, for all the world, like the end result of an interface between 1970s Elton John and a drinks blender.
“Ah, fruit-based cocktails, the hallmark of the sophisticated drinker,” says the sommelier as he lights the twin sparklers with one arm behind his back.
Eventually some fucking food arrives.
“Sir, Madame, I present to you a ‘Journey to the Centre of Cat Butt,’ says the waiter, laying down two mismatched platters of crudely-chopped, barely-assembled ingredients. “It is what all music will sound like after the collapse of civilisation.”
A man whose job entails walking around the restaurant with a comically large pepper mill asks if you would like some heroin on your starter. You politely decline.
“No heroin for me either,” says your partner brightly. “I’ve got an update meeting on the progress of the Alan Parsons Project first thing in the morning.”
Gamely, you raise a spoonful of food to your lips. A revolt of rudimentary textures and flavours jostle against one another in your reluctant mouth like reject jigsaw puzzle pieces. As all sense of nuance departs and your brain returns to its Cro-Magnon factory settings, you fight the urge to restore higher cognitive functions by beating your head against the table. Across from you, your partner is pushing the raw elements of her starter around on the plate.
“What’s wrong dear?” your inquire. “You’ve barely touched your deconstructed cat butt.”
The main course is heralded by an exhalation of complex aromas from the kitchen door as it swings open. A long rectangular dish of Red Red Meat is laid down across the centre of the table.
“Bunny Gets Paid,” says the waiter as he scoops some of the meat into a pair of plastic doll's heads that have been forced inside large wine glasses.
“Is there rabbit in it?” queries your partner.
“Oui,” says the waiter. “Also a Buttered Carpet of Horses and some Oxtail, all smoked over Rosewood, Stax, Volts and Glitter and filtered through Gauze.”
Spikes of flavour at first unwind, then rise and fall from the gastronomic doldrums where the meat is on an uneasy footing with the taste buds. When you are finished, you lay the glass on its side, closing the vacant blue eyes of the doll’s head.
“Kin,” remarks the waiter, as he places two small metal bowls of a glacial frozen desert before each of you. “It is a specialty of the iamamiwhoami region on Sweden.”
“I think Derek and Tina went there on their winter cruise,” says your partner.
A subdued Scandinavian chill, incorporating sweet and sour notes, reverberates in the dim recesses of your skull like a distant toothache.
On the section of the bill reserved for a tip, you write: ‘You probably only need one Counting Crows album.’
You enter La Maison du Vin and, after some horse trading, during which you sign a legally binding agreement to name your firstborn son Jean-Paul, are seated at an acceptable table. An insufferable French waiter affects world-weary disdain as he forces you to read your ‘choices’ from the set menu. You order a round of bananaramas. They arrive in a pair of flamboyant, over-sized star-shaped glasses, looking, for all the world, like the end result of an interface between 1970s Elton John and a drinks blender.
“Ah, fruit-based cocktails, the hallmark of the sophisticated drinker,” says the sommelier as he lights the twin sparklers with one arm behind his back.
Eventually some fucking food arrives.
“Sir, Madame, I present to you a ‘Journey to the Centre of Cat Butt,’ says the waiter, laying down two mismatched platters of crudely-chopped, barely-assembled ingredients. “It is what all music will sound like after the collapse of civilisation.”
A man whose job entails walking around the restaurant with a comically large pepper mill asks if you would like some heroin on your starter. You politely decline.
“No heroin for me either,” says your partner brightly. “I’ve got an update meeting on the progress of the Alan Parsons Project first thing in the morning.”
Gamely, you raise a spoonful of food to your lips. A revolt of rudimentary textures and flavours jostle against one another in your reluctant mouth like reject jigsaw puzzle pieces. As all sense of nuance departs and your brain returns to its Cro-Magnon factory settings, you fight the urge to restore higher cognitive functions by beating your head against the table. Across from you, your partner is pushing the raw elements of her starter around on the plate.
“What’s wrong dear?” your inquire. “You’ve barely touched your deconstructed cat butt.”
The main course is heralded by an exhalation of complex aromas from the kitchen door as it swings open. A long rectangular dish of Red Red Meat is laid down across the centre of the table.
“Bunny Gets Paid,” says the waiter as he scoops some of the meat into a pair of plastic doll's heads that have been forced inside large wine glasses.
“Is there rabbit in it?” queries your partner.
“Oui,” says the waiter. “Also a Buttered Carpet of Horses and some Oxtail, all smoked over Rosewood, Stax, Volts and Glitter and filtered through Gauze.”
Spikes of flavour at first unwind, then rise and fall from the gastronomic doldrums where the meat is on an uneasy footing with the taste buds. When you are finished, you lay the glass on its side, closing the vacant blue eyes of the doll’s head.
“Kin,” remarks the waiter, as he places two small metal bowls of a glacial frozen desert before each of you. “It is a specialty of the iamamiwhoami region on Sweden.”
“I think Derek and Tina went there on their winter cruise,” says your partner.
A subdued Scandinavian chill, incorporating sweet and sour notes, reverberates in the dim recesses of your skull like a distant toothache.
On the section of the bill reserved for a tip, you write: ‘You probably only need one Counting Crows album.’
i always wondered what the Alan Parsons Project was exactly
Was a huge SFA fan back in the day so I will have to check Ffa Coffi Pawb out.
i am a sucker for proto-bands