Posh dining

Tonight we had dinner at the Four Seasons, courtesy of a gift certificate I won by buying a balloon a week ago. This was a markedly different affair to last night's Peking duck at American Peking, served by a series of septuagenarian waiters in a mobbed restaurant and costing half the amount.

Instead of the din of drunks demanding duck and deep fried bananas, we had a jazz trio playing "If You Leave Me Now" by Chicago, and a never ending stream of booze. Well, I don't drink much these days so after a martini and some wine I was going all boggle-eyed; lucky we didn't end up doing shots of tequila. Or did we?

I ate a veloute of spinach. That's spinach soup for the proles, although it was much more exciting than that makes it sound: a strong tasting green foam of goodness, concealing a poached quail's egg. Then a risotto that I seemed to swallow in moments, and finally an apple pie that was only ok in comparison to what had gone before.

Throughout, the staff were unfailingly attentive. Not in a distracting way, but just enough to make you feel comfortable, despite the two of us not being the sort of high-rollers to regularly dine at the Four Seasons. And the jazz band continued their bizarre covers of 70s middle-of-the-road rock.

It's a lovely setting; a curious mix of antique chandeliers and the view across the harbour to Kowloon, where the ICC glistens in the darkness. I'm glad we only had three courses, rather than the faintly idiotic amount of food we had at Sevva last year, as apart from anything else the 12 storey climb home this evening would probably have finished me off.

I get the feeling I could get accustomed to this. In the last few months I've had an expensive massage at the Mandarin Oriental spa, dinner at the Four Seasons, and ... a veggie burger at Burger King in SFO. Yeah, I'm all about the high life. You just have to take care not to get too used to it, that's all.

Got home, watched For Your Eyes Only, which I thought I'd never seen before, and then realised I had, but I'd managed to conflate it with From Russia With Love in some strange, strange ways. And insert Timothy Dalton. What an odd, odd end to the night.