One of the greatest pleasures we have is eating out.
One of the few things we can only do here while on earth in the physical is eat. No angels harps or hellfire here, here we have food.
So, of course we have turned food into an artform, or at least some of us have, the chefs. I wish I was one of them, except for the hours they keep.
Dishes of fresh tomatoes with burrata and basil, searingly hot peppers tossed in a wok with prawns and garlic. The delicacy of a peach fresh from the tree, gently marinated and served with vanilla ice cream, warm and juicy, sweet and succulent.
Lunch out.
It must be my favourite occupation to sit at a little table outside somewhere, town or city, village or countryside and watch the world go by. I can think of nothing more deeply satisfying or relaxing.
We pick a likely looking table at a fairly busy restaurant. The instant waiter helps us efficiently order drinks and menus appear in our hands.
Today I put my book and pen away for lunch and just absorb. The waiter materialises to serve me a chilled wine. I know next to nothing about wines so I have let him choose whatever he thinks is best. Thankfully I am not disappointed. Crisp and fresh as the sparking fountains in the square.
The gentle hubbub of the lunchtime crowd around me comes into focus. I even slide my travel guide surreptitiously off the table and into my bag. Olives, nuts and bread with dab of butter arrive as we peruse the menu. As usual we cannot decide, salads, soups, sandwiches, fried fish or stuffed courgette flowers?
I love Europe, specially France I believe they invented lunch. An hour of two to while away between morning and afternoon. Time to savour a glass of good wine, to eat a new dish, to make pointless conversation.
It is a glorious moment to enjoy all the good things about the art of food, the glint of cutlery, white napkins, a charming waiter. And somewhere behind all this the hellish madness of a kitchen run by an enraged chef which we thankfully have nothing to do with at all.
We smile at each other across our little table, knowing we have picked a good one this time.
How to stop eating cheese 