Cracking good meals
Bob woodward was bolder. Kate Adie faced worse dangers. But I recall admiringly, from my childhood, the fearless pair of reporters who once tested Paris’s grandest restaurants by waiving the menu and ordering fried eggs.
Most maîtres recoiled, goggling, like Bateman-cartoon characters, with bulging eyeballs. Others responded in unprofessional disdain. At La Tour d’Argent, however, waiters with unflickering eyebrows disclosed, from under silver dish-covers, crispy whites, creamy yolks, rivulets of foie gras and sprinklings of sliced truffles.
