Supper at Il Bagatto

J finished shooting in Brooklyn at 8pm so we ended up eating with L & Little L, who were already comfortably through a bottle of red at this East Village Italian at 10.30. Curious mixture of perfection and downright bad.

The menu is small plates from a menu that, for once, seemed authentically Italian with a refreshing lack of pasta. And no sodding pizza.

Imported burrata (a money bag of mozzarella filled with scraps of mozzarella & cream) was overpowered by an sauce made from basil & minced olives which had been squashed into a bruschetta and poured over the cheese. The buratta's delicate flavour was overpowered into nothingness; the overwhelming taste mouth-puckeringly salty and bitter. A salade composée was dull: the asparagus over cooked, the mushrooms sliced too fine to add taste or texture.

Then the Valrhona mousse shut me up for at least ten minutes. Beating the pud at Gordon Ramsey into a cocked hat. Literally just chocolate and egg whites (I think) it was heavy, unctuous and generous in size. I used my fingers to scoop every last lick out of the glass.

I'm not a fan of maitre d's who present themselves as wine aficionados and then push you to order more expensive wine after the first two bottles, and who put your second bottle straight into the glasses from the first without offering it in a clean glass for tasting.

I wore: black silk Rory Beca tunic, black wolfords, black cardi, vintage gold chains, sheepskin bonnnet & black bubble skirt coat. metallic pink flats.