My meal will not be your meal; that’s the point of Le Clarence. In the interest of avoiding pointlessness, I won’t list it all. I will say that never before have I enjoyed whelks, as I did here, the little buggers reaching out of their shells, yearning for freedom. Mussels came simply, fresh and with the sea still there, offset by a little sugar from a length of browned onion. From its own spiked shell, sea urchin was served with pasta as fine as yarn in a butter sauce dappled with discs of fat. Turbot, cut from the bone, sat shaded from our gaze under a pair of oyster leaves. Fine, buttery bread had been spun into a sculpture; it looked like the dome of Les Invalides. Butter was a cube. Elsewhere, blood orange sat as an umbrella; truffle soaked up the juices of clams, and lamb, rolled over on a great silver trolley, was carved at the table. We had breaded octopus, sat on the plate with its fists raised for a fight, laying under a slice of cured ham. The cheese board, extravagant beyond compare, saw our table go from wine-soaked chatter to faintly pornographic groans.
Le Clarence is a metaphor — always choose joy over convenience
