This was an incredible experience. Food. Mainly. But the whole deal was quite remarkable. And this place is rammed full. And it books up months in advance, with seating for about 500 people. All in wonderful, cut-glass, shiny silver comfort. They even have a dress code. To avoid grotty French plebs from rolling up dressed like the crowds in Les Mis. Or British over-eaters bringing down the tone of the place. As it happens, I was wearing my gold taffeta cocktail dress, purple moon boots and a diving mask, so I was ok.

There is just so much food, it would be obscene except… because its food, the excesses become wonderful rather than grotesque. There’s a tower of lobsters. How they managed to climb it, I’ll never know, on those feet. And how many do you need? But this place was never about what you ‘need’. It’s about what you ‘want’. And it’s about going the extra mile. And acting like a real MAN! (Read: ‘a real PIG’)

There’s foix gras. But, like, loads of it. And in many flavours. There’s ’goose dying in pain with truffle’, there ‘goose in agony and port’ flavour, all of them uniquely wonderful. Another ‘station’ gave roast meats, lots of them, in all types of cooked-ness. They even had fish on the menu! Obviously catering to the more vegan types. I know, I know, fish aren’t strictly on the ‘glat-vegan’ menu but relative to everything else there, they’re almost a vegetable.

There was ‘veal head’, tripe, kidneys, all manner of everything which once owned space on an animal’s body, and a fair bit which didn’t. Cheeses. Miles of them. Most of them, I’m guessing, French. And everything in the place is simply outstanding. Can’t speak for the veal’s head, it’ll have to speak for itself. Miles of desserts, cakes, tartes, ice creams, crepes, freshly flipped.

We paced ourselves. Ish. Ate everything in sight for the first half hour, then let it digest. Which means drinking wine, obviously. And here that also means probably French stuff. Ok, we all prefer Stockport Malbec to a genuine Bordeaux, but you have to compromise. Because the wine list there started at less than 15 Euros. Loads and loads of fab wines between 15 and 30 a bottle, in a very upmarket restaurant. Something you never, ever find in a London restaurant.

We never got to see Narbonne itself. A sweet (I’m guessing) little seaside town between Montpellier and Spain. The restaurant is basically in the industrial area with very little around it that is in any way endearing. Yet it attracts 500 people in twice a day to eat from its amazing and vaaaaaast offerings.

We loved it. It was best 70th birthday me mate Mark has ever had. In Narbonne. Without doubt. If only the gods of the airways were not conspiring against ME, agaiaiaian.

Happy Friday, Maybe Saturday by the time I get home, FFS.

A xxxx