A bit of a sinking feeling, fortunately averted.

Rich’s mum came over for mothers’ day weekend, with Ean and Vikki and we’d booked ourselves into the Saracen’s Head for lunch.

A bit of a spur of the moment booking after the other places we tried were either full or had gone ‘family friendly’ and installed ball pools. Still, it looked nice and the menu was good.

Then we had to change our booking, and that’s when I found the reviews. Terrible, terrible reviews. And even worse, an episode of Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares in the kitchen there when it was called D-Place. Lots of Ramsay swearing and then, apparently, it went bust.

According to the News of the World:

In Chelmsford, Essex, D-Place went bust just two weeks after the cameras left. Owner Israel Pons said: “The menu Ramsay came up with was extremely poor. We dropped 50 per cent in sales. He wasn’t the saviour everyone seemed to think he would be.”

This, I kept quiet about. It was far too late for us to go anywhere else.

I’m so glad I did. The service may have been a little slow, but food was excellent, and Ean even declared the pate the best he had ever tasted.

If I could remember where I’d read the reviews I’d head back and add my own, refuting them.

Out of five? A good four.

Emilie joined the rest of us on the older side of 30 this month, so to celebrate we all headed for La Trouvaille on Newburgh Street, perhaps the Frenchest French restaurant in London.

She’s booked out the whole of upstairs where the rooms are airy and light courtesy of some breezy sash windows, whitewashed walls and a preponderance of mirrors. It’s much more comfortable than the restaurant downstairs where we had our team Christmas lunch there a couple of years ago and half of us ended up sitting on the windowsill, our backs against the cold glass.

Excellent food. Guinea fowl, halloumi, sea bass, creamy cheeses, rich chocolate mousse scooped out of a generous kitchen bowl and dropped in front of you with a satisfying squelch… it took us five hours to finish our meal, and by the time we left the shops of Carnaby Street were locking their doors.

Rode home with a pounding head; the wine hadn’t stopped flowing from the moment we arrived until we headed back down the stairs. We thought the walk across town, back to the station by way of the buzzy South Bank might have done us some good, but it actually just made our knees ache as much as our heads.

Dry Ryvita for dinner: a necessary evil.