I thought I’d blow off the cobwebs from this blog and put quill to parchment.
You’re probably reading this whilst sprawled on the sofa, exhausted from a day in the sun, under the dark emotional cloud of the Sunday blues.
In my experience, there’s only one way to beat them. We (and by we, I mean me) devised a formula a long time ago and it’s fool-proof; so much so, that it even has its own acronym; WSI. Wicked self indulgence, obviously.
You start the day with a warm cup of cocoa in bed. For this you will require an amenable subject, because having to make your own defeats the point. You then pull on your Sunday worst and a huge pair of shades for anonymity, grab some treats for the dog, a book for yourself and go for a walk in the park.
Now I believe that… 1+1=2, that the Earth is round, that Chelsea Hotel is the greatest song ever written and that long walks should always be followed by languorous lunches.
And today, La Petite Maison played host to our boundless appetites. All my friends had delivered praise of the food with unanimous exultation, so I thought I’d be fashionably late to the party and deliver my verdict after the jury had spoken.
As you’ve probably guessed, the food is French, Nicoise to be exact. Why am I telling you this? Because, Nicoise food is the lighter healthier cousin to its cream-laden, artery clogging, buttery Parisian counterpart; seafood, Ligurian oils and plenty of vegetables all feature prominently on the menu.
We order absolutely everything. The dishes come thick and fast. They all are all perfectly pleasing, but for me, stop short of ambrosia. I much prefer the food at the Arts Club to this particular offering or even a home cooked meal from scratch. That’s not to say it wasn’t good… just not good enough.
In the spirit of curiousity/gluttony, I sampled everything, so here’s what to order: burata, potato gratin, lentil salad, crispy squid, rump steak, lemon chicken, French toast, cheesecake.
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