Friends for dinner?

“Honfleur!”, I declared. “Easy to get to, properly French, and tres foodie. Book that ferry today!”. So off we went, me fella planning to make like a monk (of the Benedictine order, that is) and drink northern France dry of their speciality liqueur, while I aimed to do what proper food writers do, and experience the Normandy coastline’s globally renowned Fruits du Mer first hand.

So there we were, in one of those properly authentic harbourside bistros, the local rosé flowing and the local fishermen doing their thang against the old port walls. And there they were: six longed-for langoustines, arranged in a thoughtful circle on a plate. Le yummy, oui? Er - non. Because up until the moment I ordered them, those cute little claws had been waving to each other, beady eyes gazing into a dreamy middle distance as endearing tentacles twitched in the direction of a prospective mate. Surely these fascinating, perfectly-formed prehistoric creatures weren’t destined to be my supper; surely their intricate, seemingly impenetrable suits of armour weren’t designed to be torn apart by a greedy food writer in search of yet another clever flourish on the page? “Pass ‘em over here,” muttered my confused, embarrassed fella as the tears started to tumble … but I couldn’t even bring myself to pick up the plate. “Is everyseeng oo-kay?”, asked the concerned waiter. “No!”, I sobbed; “Les animaux sont mon amis!”.

And that was the end of my Honfleur Fruits du Mer experience - and, possibly, the beginning of my return to the ‘nothing with a face’ lifestyle? Watch this space. In restaurants, as in all aspects of life, I’m going to be very careful what I ask for in the future – it may no longer be what I want.