Days of wind and rain make the passing of those glorious summer days of wine and roses all the harder to bear. Each year my expectations of a gentle transition from sunshine to mellow fruitfulness, born of some atavistic memory, are dashed, only to be replaced by the damp patch in which I now find myself laying. Most damp patches, save for those of incontinence, have a silver lining and this one, being the start of the season of fruits de mer, is no exception. Seafood is very sexy which means that you need time to enjoy it. Moules frites is a knee trembler and prawn cocktail is exactly that. They are the trailers, the Pearl & Dean, the crap before the big feature. On the other hand a glistening wet giant of a plateau des fruits de mer is a big sexy epic which demands knowledge, care, and time but, above all, it needs appetite; insatiable appetite with the urge to get tongue, fingers and probes into the tiniest. pinkest and sweetest spots. Getting intimate with fruits de mer can be dirty, but only if you do it properly…pace Woody Allen. The colours, shapes and textures scream obscene and I love them. I’m so excited and I just can’t hide it; I think I’m going to lose control and, do you know, I think I like it. Bienvenue, automne.