Reims

Should you chance to find yourself in Reims on a Saturday evening do not on any account decide to have dinner at Le Boulingrin, the city's most famous brasserie. The cuisine is exceptional; the ambience is Belle Epoque; the dining room hums in tune to a hundred interesting conversations; the guests and the waiting staff are beautiful but the maitre d' is a turd and does not deserve your custom.

I'd arrived in Reims quite late and was tired and hungry. Could the concierge at my hotel recommend a local restaurant? I'd asked and had been directed to Le Boulingrin, a few minutes' walk away. Approaching from a side street, I passed the open door to the kitchens and paused to watch the chefs adorning aluminium platters, piled high with crushed ice, with crustacea and molluscs before being hoisted shoulder high by waiters in evening dress and whisked into the adjacent restaurant. I made a mental note to leave a large tip for the concierge and pressed on to the restaurant's door.

A table for one? I asked. Although the place was busy there were a few empty tables and I didn't anticipate a problem. Did I have a reservation? No, I said, I had stopped unexpectedly in Reims and my hotel had recommended Le Boulingrin. The waitress hailed the passing maitre d', who looked me up and down through piggy eyes. 'Non. Nous sommes complet! ABSOLUEMENT complet!' he said, turning away as he spoke. Then he half turned on his heels and added, jowels quivering with emotion, 'Malheureusement', making it sound as though this unfortunate state of affairs was entirely my fault.

Twat. There is no excuse for abysmal behaviour of this sort. After being denied a table at Le Boulingrin I crossed the road to another restaurant that, it turned out, was also fully booked. The manager could not have been more charming, however, and was deeply apologetic that I could not be accommodated. She suggested two alternative nearby restaurants and I left vowing to return better prepared another day.

After receiving the shrugged shoulder at four restaurants, I went back to my hotel and asked the concierge to reserve a table for me, which she did, at Brasserie Flo. I arrived early and was greeted by name. I apologised for arriving before the specified time. No problem, Mr Mitchell. We have a table for you upstairs." said the maitre d', who led me to a room devoid of atmosphere and replete with hedge fund managers. My heart sank. I'd wanted to indulge my enthusiasm for shellfish in the company of other enthusiasts, not surrounded by wankers with expense accounts inversely proportional in size to the credit card holder's ability to appreciate food and wine. Let me record here, however, that the service at Brasserie Flo is exceptional. The ability to materialise at a guest's side when service is required and to remain aloof at other times is a rare gift in a waiter but the men and women who work at Brasserie Flo have this skill in spades. I'd have preferred to dine downstairs in the bustling main dining room but still, I had a fantastic evening.

I was asked whether I'd like an aperitif and, this being the capital of Champagne, I ordered a glass of whatever the house recommended. While drinking this slowly I perused a lengthy menu and contemplated the effectively infinite combinations of courses I could order. In the end I settled on the 'Plateau Royale' which arrived in due course, causing the busy restaurant to hush momentarily as it was brought to my table. Surveying the feast that lay before me, I ignored the envious glances and open stares from all sides. I could hear the group of British bankers at the next table exchanging pathetic stories about 'my first oyster'. There was no way I was going to eat everything on the plate. Where to start? In what order to engulf the delicacies arrayed before me? I knew that the pleasure I'd derive from each succeeding mouthful would diminish but this made the problem harder, not easier. Embedded in ice and arranged on the vast aluminium salver lay the following: half a lobster, half a crab, nine oysters, of three different varieties, six whelks, some large prawns, a dozen clams or so, a few langoustines, a bowl of crevettes grises, abundant bread and butter and several lemons. Where should I start? Perhaps with an outrageously luxurious mouthful of lobster - the entire tail engulfed at once - a blob of mayonnaise the only lubricant? Or should I should select the plumpest, fleshiest and most lubricious of the oysters, its shell fully six inches from umbo to ventral margin. Perhaps I should suck the salt from the carapaces of the tiny crevettes grises before smearing them on brown bread and butter, squeezing lemon juice over the whole and engulfing them, shells and all.

I cannot tell you in which order I consumed this feast, for I was too absorbed in the task of eating to take notes, but I can assure you that the exorbitant price was emphatically worth paying. When I was sated, a few whelks short of the full plate, the waitress took away the detritus and brought, at my request, a cognac and an espresso. I took the cognac with me out onto the balcony overlooking the main street of Reims and watched the party-goers disperse as it trickled down my willing throat.