Virginia
I have had for a long time a certain obsession. It began in France when I was about 14 or 15. To be exact, it began in Paris, in the restaurant of the George V hotel. It happened when I first saw the brown topping oscillating towards me, giving off the warm scent of chocolate mingled with vanilla.
I am referring, of course, to soufflés. Once you have been bitten by a soufflé, or rather once you have bitten into it, there is simply no going back. For many years, alas, few London restaurants have emulated Paris. Paris has one eaterie simply called Soufflé, where the practised soufflé-eater can indulge in a whole meal of dishes both savoury and sweet.
In England, however, there have been few reasonably priced places that provide a decent one. This was until Marco Pierre White once kindly asked me and my friend Alice Thomson to eat soufflés at the Oak Room.
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