Caprice 429

You called?

Let's go...

'As soon as you see the horrible decoration of fluffy red satin in the noisy big hall, you can tell where you are: a chic restaurant of the "palace" kind where cuisine is international, complicated and slightly artificial - what Brits naively call "high cuisine", dextrous Italian staff with expressive leg motions, pretty and breasty women, gentlemen preferably old and rich (Gulbekian and his flowered beard, as an example).

That's what it is: a huge menu in French and many incoherent dishes. We tried a good avocado stuffed with erm, what do you call a lobster without claws that comes from Cuba, or a crayfish on steroids?, veal thimus on truffles (when they reach London truffles turn absolutely dull and tasteless), and, to remind us of the dark years, turnips! (why not butternut?)

Wines were excellent but expensive and offered by an incompetent wine waiter.

Prices are high: count at least 3---- : 42F however much and whenever much that was! with 1-2 bottle of an average wine.'

All out of my head. Not sure how you translate topinambours and rutabagas - can't be arsed to go downstairs for the dictionary, not after a lovely 12 year old from Bowmore. :)

To add to this, one these gentlemen was famous for having a slot on a national radio every week (early 80s I think) and many people listened to him for the way he'd flame down pretentious places with a fencer's grace. He brought ethics to the top when he said he had no problems about praising a chef about the cooking but criticising the state of their toilets in the same breath (if I may say so).

Greg

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That time's long past, but what would I not give To see the whorehouse where we used to live. No spam: ficus = no(n)