I am reading Incline Our Hearts by AN Wilson. It is the first in a series, and thus far it has been pretty much a mirror of his more recent memoir, Confessions, which I enjoyed, but which I'm not completely sure I want to read again as fiction.
Not that it is quite that simple - but very nearly.
Anyway, in the novel there is a description of a lunch that the narrator enjoys as a young man in a house in Brittany. It does sound rather wonderful, (although I might have cut the naked mermaid bit, had I been in charge):
"Even by her own impeccable standards this was a series of dishes done to such perfection that one was half aware, even while eating it, that the memory of the meal would remain for ever. Almost all experience is instantaneously forgettable. Most of what we do remember is only fixed in our minds by chance. For another person to place something in our consciousness deliberately, so that we never forget it, that is art... The meal began with a spinach soufflé, which was like a thing of nature, a puffy light green crust sprouting from its bowl like a bush coming to leaf. And then there was raie au beurre noire, the freshest strands of succulent skate as white as snow amid the black butter and the little, dark green capers: once again, one felt that the food was for the first time in its natural habitat: a naked mermaid was suggested, sitting in seaweed. And then there were pieces of roast beef, pink and tender served with pommes dauphinoise. And then there were haricots verts from the garden, served separately when we had all finished our meat. And then there was a fresh, very oily, green salad with which to eat the Camembert. And then, to crown it all, omelettes soufflés aux liqueurs, frothing, bubbling in their great buttery pans as Therese and Barbara ran in, squealing with the excitement of this success, for sweet omelettes never looked lighter or smelt more spirituous than these."
