It starts with a terracotta bowl filled with salty nuggets of deep-fried pork fat. We are in a French bistro, so naturally they have a mellifluous name. They're called grattons Lyonnais, which sounds like a grade three piano piece, but in truth describes scratchings without the tooth-threatening crunch.
Now we're on London's Fulham Road, where there's a shop selling only Le Creuset, and even the next-door steakhouse is called Sophie. But do come inside to the restaurant as stage set: half-linen curtains at the windows; enough wood panelling to make buying shares in the manufacturers...
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