Dear Trespass
We’re in Paris. We spent the day at Versailles surrounded by others swaddled in fanny packs, holding camcorders.
Now we’re at a different kind of palace.
We’re staring down the Menu Hiver no.2 at Pierre Gagnaire. That’s nine courses, amuse bouche and petit fours with coffee. I’m deemed a lady, so there are no prices on my menu.
So this is what it’s like at the third best restaurant in the world.
We’re seated at chairs which look out at the room, not at each other. A candle is lit, just for us. We instinctively whisper to each other and smile reverentially.
A slab of foie gras the size of my camera is gilded with cider jelly and fingers of brioche- still warm from the oven.
So this is what it’s like to be royal- or just stupidly rich. As for us? We’re just cavalier about our mortgage.
The foie gras was the starter. Then come five swirling savoury dishes, capped off with Le Boeuf. You know it’s serious by the overcapitalisation and the trolley that gets wheeled to your table. Individually carved pieces of beef are bedded down with spinach puree and a nugget of braised wagyu- beef from the smuggest cows in the world. 
I’ll be honest now and say I didn’t love every course- there was a sea urchin and asparagus concoction with a black foamy piece of toast that reminded me of a mouldy sponge. But I couldn’t bring myself to say anything at the time. I just hid the piece I didn’t like at the bottom of the bowl.
There’s at least a waiter for every person. My glass hasn’t been empty for more than 30 seconds- and that was only when I’d finished my white wine and they had to find the sommelier to consult on the red.
There have been 12 changes of cutlery and I’ve been assisted to the bathroom twice.
After they brush down our table and give us fresh napkins we see the final course is listed as ‘Le desserts de Pierre Gagniare.’
Now I understand why royals develop eating disorders.
It’s a Willy Wonka bulimic binge gone mad. There’s a margarita glass of green apple sorbet, decked with mint sauce and trimmings of fresh rocket. There’s lemon and vanilla bean parfait flirting with candied capsicum, stuffed with dried fruit and spices. Out trails a saucer rimmed with a lemon curd cookie; marzipan chocolate cherry; thumb of chocolate trifle; vanilla macaroon, and a silly putty string of pink marshmallow.
There’s a bowl of segmented citrus, lemon cream and dehydrated orange. And another with coconut and pistachio fluff and a dandruff dusting of toasted coconut.
There’s a cup of citrus and pineapple dice, blanketed by a thin pineapple skin that melts.
There’s a Jenga tower of sin; balls of chocolate ganache, layered with chocolate wisps, chocolate sauce -and a chocolate cigar.
The staff are so polite that by the last dessert, one whispers an apology and says “this is the last one, I promise.”
I have never been so grateful for the medical mystery of the dessert stomach- or elasticised belts.
To help ease your transition to reality, on the way out they pour a small cup of green tea while they fetch your coat.
‘Would you like us to organize a car for you Madame?’ is the last question they ask.
Queens may travel by coach. Modern day princesses by organised cars.
Trespassers like us find our own way home on the Metro. And think about how we’re going to pay for it tomorrow.
xoxo
Pierre Gagnaire
6 Rue Balzac, 8th.
Paris
(Metro station- George V)
