I'll have the... strawberry

People have flavours.

Like chocolate or vanilla or strawberry or... erm, no, that's not what I meant. Rather I mean to say that events are coloured by the company in which you experience them. Yesterday She Who Must Not Be Named and I covered a lot of the same ground around London that I dragged Matthew and Kevin through a few weeks back. Not all the same ground though, since we tried for depth rather than quite so much breadth this time, but even so, it still became something of a race to see the few things on our agenda (future visitors please note: if you want to see London I recommend that you try and take more than a single day in which to do it!). Though I'd seen it all before, it was a wholly different experience seeing it through the eyes of She Who Must Not Be Named. And just as good :)

Anyway, I promised details about dinner.

I first passed by the Ivy many years back, without even realising what it was (it's located only a short walk away from Forbidden Planet, hence my familiarity with the area), or giving much thought to it, aside from admiring the lovely art deco clock on the building and perhaps wondering what lay behind the frosted windows (frosted windows always pique my curiosity). At the time I couldn't have even named a single restaurant in the city. Years later, by a process resembling some strange form of osmosis, I now have a pretty good idea where the "in" places to eat are (I just don't eat there). And topping that list is the Ivy. As far as I know, the Ivy appears to be something of an institution. It doesn't have a reputation for the most inventive food, or a cutting edge decor or atmosphere, but it's nevertheless comes top or near enough most of the lists of the favoured places to eat in London. As I said, I wanted to experience it before I leave here.

And it was certainly an interesting experience. Firstly I can't recall a restaurant in which the staff seemed quite so delighted to have me there. It verged on obsequiousness, which was slightly uncomfortable at first, although it's remarkable (as well as a little disturbing) how quickly you adapt. The decor was pleasantly intimate - understated rather than ostentatious - with the frosted windows lending it a strange otherworldly air. And spotted at least one noteworthy thespian dining a few tables away.

The quality of the food was unsurprisingly very good. Between She Who Must Not Be Named and myself, we had pumpkin soup, a Caesar salad, pan fried gnocci and deep fried haddock and chips with a particularly fine tartar sauce (you could pluck out the capers if you wished). All of this was uniformly excellent. But then came dessert. And here I made a terrible, terrible mistake. And error of judgement that dismays me even now and which will continue to haunt me in the days to come. Alas, you see, I ordered the chocolate souffle, a dish which in other circumstances would have pleased me greatly and which was indeed quite delightful. But She Who Must Not Be Named ordered Scandinavian iced berries with a hot white chocolate sauce - a dish mine own eyes had rested upon before the lure of chocolate tempted them away. Superlatives fail me here. It was, let me say, divine. A small slice of heaven presented on a plate. Angels would weep in its presence. I looked on enviously, now disconsolate with my chocolate souffle. Fortunately She Who Must Not Be Named, succumbed to my wide eyed stare (or perhaps simply took pity upon me) and allowed me to share her berries. If, perchance, in the future you should happen to find yourself seated at table in the Ivy, perusing the dessert menu, unsure of which tempting dish to choose, let me lay to rest your uncertainty: order the berries. Weeping angels, remember?

She Who Must Not Be Named and I both decided we could get used to dining there and at the same time realised we may never get the opportunity again.