We arrived at the restaurant just as the sun was going down, our long shadows like things from the dark crystal dueling in the moist air. The restaurant loomed infront of us like a giant margeret thatcher, which made me shudder in fear. Laughter eminated from its walls, the kind you know is coming from the lungs of spoilt adults acting far younger than their wrinkles reveal.

Once inside the truth was in plain view - it was filled with your average variety of ponsnobite - the afore-mentioned rich kids who had forgotten they were grown-ups, and 42 year old men dressed in flowery shirts, buying expensive champagne for 17 year old girls in Gucci sunglasses.

Surely the food would make up for the setting.

And here it was. The main course. A broiled moroccan quail, halved on a plate of gold leaf, stuff with cicilian capers and drizzled with french black truffle sauce, in a 'garden' of new english potatos.

There was a problem though.

Clearly, the potatos were cooked in the afternoon!

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