The last time a waitress took the trouble to warn me off what I was ordering for my meal I almost ended up in casualty. As it was I found myself getting more intimate with my friendly Polish GP than I might otherwise have felt comfortable. That was all down to a “super duper hot mackerel” curry I had to eat last September.

I am pleased to say that the after effects of the lunch I had in Paris were more benign.

We had spent a Tuesday morning wandering through the foothills of Montmartre which included coffee and croissants in a crowded cafe. We had then made the walk up the hill and skirting the crowds spent an hour in the Montmartre Museum. This included a recreation of an artist’s studio that was filled with light and posters and pictures going back to its glory days included grainy black and white pictures of the athletic looking women who dance the can can in the Moulin Rouge.

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We then walk down the other side of the hill and having refreshed ourselves with a drink in the sun (where we were waved back from sitting on too much of the pavement) we went in search of lunch. This was to be found in a bistro wedged up next to one of sets the stairs that take you either up or down the hill centred with a double metal hand rail.

We were shown into a room round the back with plush red leather seats and we settled down with our menus. Almost immediately I decided I would have the Andouillette especially as it was 5A rated (The Association Amicale des Amateurs d’Andouillette Authentique (AAAAA) ‘The Friendly Club of Lovers of Authentic Andouillette’ is a club formed by several food writers in 1970. It gives certificates (“diplôme”) to producers of high-quality andouillettes.)

The rest of the family ordered and it was then down to me. I put on my best French accent and asked for the “andouillette avec frites”. The waitress gave me a worried look and said something that sounded very much like “Are you sure?” as she rubbed her hand over her stomach to make it clear that what I would be eating would be made up of the stomach of something else.

I reassured her that I knew what I was doing.

It arrived twenty minutes and a pint of Pelforth later. A burnt dark sausage on a plate piled with chips. As I split the casing the folds of meat fell away leaving little doubt that it was made up of the intestine of pig. It came with an earthy farm yard smell which went well the bland crisp chips. I ate with relish.

We had friends round for supper last night. I was in work for most of the day so there hadn’t been much time beforehand to get everything ready. So I got organised the night before.

This involved me taking a chicken out of the freezer to defrost and cooking the odd bag of vegetables I found in the basement – potatoes, carrots and beetroot.

When I got home I took a sharp knife to the chicken and cut it into eight pieces. These went into a shallow roasting tin together with three chopped preserved lemons, a generous sprinkling of sumac, salt, pepper and olive oil.

That all went into a hot oven together with the potatoes which I had broken into pieces and doused in hot oil.

The beetroot were peeled, sliced and covered in a mixture of yogurt, olive oil and garlic.

The carrots were sliced and mixed with a mixture of roasted ground cumin, more olive oil and lemon juice.

I cooked some lentils and when they were done and cooling I stirred in some good feta cheese and roasted red pepper.

The most challenging part of the meal was coming up with a vegetarian ‘main’ dish to compete with the chicken. The Ottelenghi cookbook helped out with a recipe for cauliflower fritters.

We drank beer and red wine and listened to The Owl Service.

Saturday morning I was stood at the counter at Ward’s Fish looking for red mullet. The original intention had been to buy something to cover in bread crumbs and deep fry but as I made my way down to the market I persuaded myself that if they had red mullet then we would have that instead. At first I couldn’t see any so I let my eye wander to where the white fish lay on the ice but then I caught sight of a flash of golden pink. There was only the one of them but it was big enough to feed four.

I asked for it to be filleted and turned my mind to how I might cook it. On the way back to the car I regretted not keeping it whole. It had been big enough to roast in the oven. No matter. I would roast it anyway.

That evening I par boiled some potatoes. When they were done I sliced them so they were as thick as a thick pound coin, doused them in olive oil and put them in a pan in a hot oven. As they continued to cook I sliced up a mixture on red onions, tomatoes and lemons which were tossed with crushed garlic, olive oil and more lemon juice.

I gave the potatoes a stir after 20 minutes as them were just starting to take on some colour. After another ten minutes I covered the potatoes with the onion tomato mixture before giving it all a gentle stir and putting it back in the oven. After another ten minutes I laid out the two fillets of red mullet on top of the softening onions and tomatoes. It was all given a good slug of olive oil and plenty of salt and pepper before going back into the oven for about 12 minutes.

Red mullet are still my favourite fish.

Sunday and the sun was out and so time was spent rearranging pond life, admiring my garlic

and artichoke plants before planting seeds and drinking a beer in the garden.

Sunday evening and we ate a sweet curry listening to blissed out funk jazz.

I am not sure I have been effusive enough about the freekeh I made at the weekend and I have not given sufficient credit for where I first read about it and took the idea of what to do with it.

With regards to the credit I should lift my hat (again) to Sabrina Gayhor and her second book on Persian cooking Sirocco. Having bought the bag of freekeh and having had it sat on the side at home I went through various books of middle- eastern cooking to work out how best to deal with it and the only mention I could find was in the Sabrina Gayhor book and whatever she suggested to do with it worked a treat.

The only misfire was in the quality made and that was my fault and worked out ok in any event. I should have spotted that the recipe said “for 8” and applied the appropriate discount for the 3 that were eating . Of course I did not and we were left with a vast bowl of the stuff to get through.

So I have had it for my lunch over the course of the last three days with added chicken, tomato and Turkish green pepper.

It has been a welcome break from the normal dry (but smelly) cheese sandwich.

I am likely to be back on the cheese sandwiches tomorrow so I took myself into town over lunchtime today to see if I could track down a Liverpool supply of freekeh. It transpired that I could but at 3 or 4 times the price of the bag I bought in Oxford a few weeks ago.

So it would appear that only next visit to Oxford I am going to have to make my way down the Cowley Road to stock up on both mograbeh and freekeh.

As for the taste – because it has been lightly smoked it has about the hint of a far away BBQ which is not too bad.