Singing along to Bob Dylan as I was cooking last night was not only a dreadful aural experience for anyone listening but also a strange one for me as Bob and I have never really hit it off. I hate his songs and his singing and he doesn’t know me. The same could be said of Fergus Henderson, in that he doesn’t know me, but I sing an anthem to his new St John Hotel under my breath quite often. Although unvisited it remains one of the few things, the other being my fantastic family and friends, that I miss in England. The understated total rightness of the ethic, the rooms, restaurant, bar and food does for me what Valhalla did for the Vikings. I don’t want to die there, but you could do a lot worse. That is by the by, as I won’t be eating there unless an underground line is opened from La Moussiere to Leicester Square and the management drops the tarif to include a 10€ four course lunch with wine. Just thinking of the wonderful things I ate at the old St.John, and the excellent evenings and lunchtimes that I spent there, made me set up a simple lunch menu, of melon and Serrano ham followed by Piperade and a fresh peach and it made me feel good.