The Millionaire Russian Politicians, Their Twenty-Something Wives, Their Tour Guide And Her Daughter

So yesterday an invite was extended by mum from her clients: two nouveau riche couples, for dinner at Tetsuya's. Hell yea. For two reasons. I'm a hat whore and count Tetsuya's as one of the very best meals of my life, but also to observe the older man-young wife phenomenon. I've always said I could do a bit of sugardaddy, so here was my opportunity to get up close and personal. Let's see how the night turned out...

Russians are nuts, but that's a given. The girls were typical Russian stunners and the men beige potato-like relics. They want the best, so we went through the best of the wine list, including an incredible '04 Giaconda chardonnay and an '86 Grange. The food is excellent, but I wasn't as dazzled as I hoped to be again, from the world's fifth best restaurant. Most of the dishes were brought out on standard white plates whereas when A and I were there every dish came out on a Japanese plate created just for that morsel, which I thought was special. Some flavours didn't work, like the pea soup with bitter chocolate (and I love dark, bitter chocolate) and the beetroot and blood orange sorbet - the earthy beet not harmonising with the zingy citrus. But overwhelmingly the food remains perfection. The confit of Petuna ocean trout is still a dish I could eat over and over again. The menu revolves around this marvel of sunset-hued fish, salty with konbu, and it's worth the visit alone. A grey sliver of baby barramundi is just so good on enoki and woodear mushrooms. The disc of smoked ocean trout is hidden under Avruga caviar and a quail egg, and you want to scoop up every crunchy black pearl. And I love Japanese custards, this time with leek and crab.

This had me thinking of 'best meals'. Yes, I am fascinated by star chefs and star restaurants, and wallet-willing will seek them out. I, too, would fly in and out if El Bulli offered me a table. But even more so do my happiest memories come from the simple. I could have licked the plate clean at La Spaghetteria last year, an accidently-found spot in one of Siracusa's many little lanes, after a morning at the beach and the sand still sticking. The spaghetti pale pink from the cream and freshest prawns. Washed down with a cold Peroni that tasted of the sea from my salty lips...

But anyway...as I observed the girls giggling amongst themselves, talking about their upcoming trip to Ibiza - snap - and the men, who were quite dull and charmless, I asked myself could I do this? I always joked with girlfriends that I/we could, that it would be fun for a few months, years, jetsetting around the world, the best restaurants, clothes, gifts. But sitting there, with one of them leering in between upteenth toasts and the other groping me when the girls had gone, I realised I couldn't. There was no witty conversation or anecdotes that even if I'd heard at countless dinner parties I could still smile back on to the first time I'd heard it. And I thought I could do it because I thought I could handle the sexual part of it - being open to pretty much anything. But the idea of touch, of fucking, of bodies slipping past each other in bed during sleep, no. I love my shoes and travel and fois gras and drugs and I would love my lingerie to come from IM Boutique.

But just not enough.