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Over a bottle of excellent Gavi di Gavi, recommended by a young sommelier whose formal badge of office (the silver grapes) clashed uneasily with his baggy jeans and sneakers combo – everything clashes slightly here – we moaned about the starters. Beef carpaccio was drowned in olive oil in an optimistic stab at distracting from the tastelessness of the meat. Although the pasta in a bowl of tagliolini with rabbit and olives was perfectly cooked, the strength of the olives swamped the gentle sweetness of the rabbit. “Quite nice,” said my friend. “If I made that for supper in front of the telly, I’d eat it. I wouldn’t be proud of my work, but I would eat it.”
