You can’t have it all; not every dream is realised. Here’s one I have: I’m walking in the Paris dusk and, as I do the Elvis leg to extinguish a cigarette — in my dreamland, it is the city of d’you-have-a-light? — I notice a bistro glowing in the gloom. The food is good, the wine is better; neither is a fortune. But of course this can never happen, because instead Paris heaves with restaurants that make me wish I’d paid more attention in my French classes, if only so I might more efficiently insult the owners. C’est la vie.
It doesn’t mean I don’t try with Paris; Eurostar beckons, trips are taken and disappointments collected. But I suspect my days of chucking back warm glasses of M&S chenin blanc in the Channel Tunnel are over. What would be the point? Last week I found out Fitzrovia has thoroughly outfoxed the French. Although, let’s be clear, Le Beaujolais off Charing Cross Road has long had their wine bars licked.
