Following the principle suggested by my sweet H that while the cat’s away, mice usually play, although I don’t know which of us is the cat, I took a rather nice younger man out to lunch today. A new restaurant has opened in Plédran, recommended by several friends, so I booked it blind and met my guest there.
I noticed a blackboard outside the Carotte et Chocolate as I arrived, with exotic dishes chalked up (imagine! no pork and no paté!) and as I walked through the door the interior was reminiscent of Camden Town’s idea of what a French restaurant should be rather than Plédran’s, or even the big city of St Brieuc. I can’t speak for Paris because I don’t get there very often.
Don’t get me wrong now. It was wonderful.
The food was delicious, beautifully presented, and of most interest to me, because I was paying, it was very reasonable: a fixed menu of 12 euros was on offer for 2 courses at midday.
I felt as though I had discovered a tiny oasis of civilisation in the cultural and aesthetic desert that is Plédran. My guest, a fellow musician who was there to talk business rather than for anything more salacious, was equally impressed.
Business concluded, the gossip passed to the many other musicians of the region who are mutual acquaintances, and the “bilan” was not good. Everyone seems to be undergoing some sort of psychological crisis or other. He started to give me details of his own exchanges with his psychiatrist and I realised with horror that the last two artist friends that I had met socially were also being analysed. It is like living in New York. Is Sarcozy’s plan to drive us all mad?
I must find myself someone with a couch before it is too late.
3 days ago