Reader, you find me: W.R.G., your ever-faithful restarauntee, utterly indisposed at a table in the fashionable Huguenots Brasserie, West Kensington - newly opened by Hugo Smedley, a chum from my alma mater Rawley House (come on you Robins). My table is littered with the remnants of several vases of wine, a few pints of port, at least one barrel of Bolly and a bath of sherry. I shout noisily to the waiter that my tarte au citron “looks like it’s covered in vom”. He points out politely that it is, indeed, covered in vomit - my own. Peering groggily over the table I notice that my lady-friend for the evening seems to have left. I vaguely recollect someone being awfully cross with me, although that may have been the head chef - on my way back from the toilets for a quick chunder break I had taken a wrong turn and found myself tangled in a metal, wiry thing that turned out to be the main kitchen grill. At this point my good friend Hugo - flanked by two wide, bald men in black - presents me with a choice: paying and leaving, or a punch in the head. I end up settling for both options.
As I stumble back to my lodgings in Russell Square, a little woozy with concussion, I reflect on my Huguenots experience. The decor was blue - which is good - and I had certainly had some food - possibly beef, although it could well have been seabass. I had undoubtedly had some drink (I am beginning to suspect I am a tad tipsy). I tally up the bill: £512 a head doesn’t sound right. It turns out I’ve forgotten to add on the breakages, which push it up to £865 each. A word to the wise, though - I stuck to the set menu. If you go a la carte at these places it can be bloody expensive.