A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I went out for dinner in Paris.
I was in high spirits. Although it was a miserable, chilly, February evening, I was on holiday, I’d found free parking and to top it all, Nelson Mandela had just been released from prison (yes, this really was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away).
The restaurant, on the Place Dauphine, was sumptuous but understated: classical French cuisine with a contemporary twist. It was, therefore, with a breezy demeanour that I surveyed the menu and found myself drawn to the lamb.
Or, more specifically, to the cervelle d’agneau en papillote, avec un coulis de cassis, which I confidently ordered.
“Are you sure?” my dining companion asked.
“Of course,” I replied, rather patronizingly.
The key question, though, was the next one.
“Do you want to ask what it is?”
Of course I didn’t, because I knew, and I explained that this was a piece of lamb, cooked in something that sounded like a paper bag but was obviously some sort of finely-sliced potato covering. And it came with a blackcurrant sauce.
And then I discovered the dangers of a little knowledge.
The blackcurrant sauce was rich and sweet but my lamb did, in fact, come in a paper bag, by which I was embarrassed but not alarmed.
Until I opened the bag.
It contained a brain.
Now, lots of people enjoy brain.
I am not one of them; and now I was embarrassed and alarmed.
There’s a wise word in the Bible that says, ‘Desire without knowledge is not good’, and as I looked at the brain, and the brain looked at me, I knew it to be true.
I’m often guilty of grasping at a half-read article, a half-remembered tweet, a half-understood word, and calling it knowledge. I reckon we all are. It’s what makes so many of our arguments so pointless. But the spirit of knowledge, the prophet Isaiah says, is also the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel – that is of sensible advice.
So, for once in my life, I took some sensible advice, accepted my humiliation and acknowledged my lack of knowledge.
The brain and I came to a tacit agreement that it would not be eaten.
And I asked for steak frites.
We drove to Paris in my first car, an old Renault 4 that I bought from Jennie Buckman, my acting teacher at RADA, and stayed in the old Hotel Henri IV on the Place Dauphine, which was notably scabby and notably cheap. The car, whose principal characteristic was thinness, barely made it, and almost died on the next leg of the journey, to Brussels; but we found a parking space on the square and left the car there all week without so much as a ticket.