On Sunday we were invited for lunch at Chez Bruno, an unbelievably posh restaurant in the south of France. At Chez Bruno all the dishes, even the ice-cream desserts, are flavoured with truffles. Resting on the gate pillars as we drove in were two gigantic stone truffles, and next to the entrance was a long painted fresco of the Last Supper, with Bruno’s face superimposed on that of Jesus and 12 Michelin-starred chefs as his apostles. In the carpark a dignified old gent stepped in front of the car. His job was to park it for us. I took my foot off the clutch thinking the gears were disengaged, but they weren’t, and the car kangarooed forward, knocking him on to the bonnet.
The restaurant was crowded with the strange faces and other minds of the French, who, if asked, would no doubt claim that the only thing the English have ever cooked properly is Joan of Arc. Our host, already installed at a corner table in the sultry conservatory, was wearing an easyJet orange shirt and Glasgow Rangers blue trousers. As the only French words I know are plume, tante and Moulin Rouge, I kept out of the business of ordering. The wine, in the form of the biggest bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape I had ever seen or imagined, was already on the table with the cork out.
Waving aside my apology for being late, our host began, as always, with a joke. ‘I bought a stepladder the other day,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for my real one for years, but haven’t found it yet.’ ‘Did you hear about the Parisian who threw himself in the river?’ I countered. ‘He was declared in Seine.’
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