Part Seven: Gravalax, Veloute, tarte and sorbet.

 We returned to Breezes for a final supper. Friday night had been the General Managers Gala Presentation night and the central Terrazzo had been decked out with fairy lights and the stage, now covered in white cloth, looked a bit like a wedding cake. The buffet food for all the guests had been really remarkable, even if a bit like a seventies cocktail party: there were curried egg canapés and smoked salmon rolls laid out in lovely concentric circles that would have made Delia smile with pride, and there was sushi or lobster or meat on the grill to follow. There was even a whole table piled high with mini puddings and brightly dyed meringues and guests gently elbowing their way to get a bit of everything.

Tonight the guests were scattered back into the separate restaurants and we had a table at Piacere, where nouvelle French cuisine is served in a formal setting.

It’s a fancy dress restaurant and they are so caught up in the performance of it that I think they have forgotten to pay much attention to the food itself. The waiter in a white tux showed us to our seats and tucked my chair in under my bum and elaborately swished my napkin off my place and into my lap. He brought us a basket of little bread rolls, and showed us the wine menu. I asked what the soup de jour was and we ordered our meals. All the tablecloths and chairs matched the heavy ruched-curtains, and a lady sat down at a white piano and played ‘Moonriver’ and ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ on slightly flat keys.

Our starters arrived and we used the first of four sets of cutlery to eat the tiny tasters, cleansed our palates with sorbet (which tasted a bit like the slush they used to make the cocktails at the bar) until the mains arrived under silver domes. Off they came in white gloved hands and fish in pistachio crust and drizzled in citrus creams with a boat-sail of crisp pastry all looked so much better than they tasted. A’s swordfish needed a sword to cut, though my snapper was a little more yeilding. Puddings were similarly petit, and my Opera cake a little bit stale and the té de menthe was only lukewarm. It was such a perfect Faulty Towers evening, such a tepid attempt; I was amused at their faux-french performance, but Aunt A had not been able, or willing, to eat much of hers and left still feeling hungry.