no. i lie. the way to end a birthday is lunching at tetsuya’s the day after.

way back in march, the prospect of november birthdays prompted a flurry of emails and a flutter of stomachs, and a booking at tetsuya’s ensued. back then we laughed giddily — deborah and i — about fancy pants lunches, and stretchy pants, but as the months went by, i started to feel nervous about the prospect of sitting down and eating 13 courses of food.

i made a half-hearted attempt to train for the event, aiming to stretch my stomach to capacity, but all that happened was lots of my clothes don’t fit so good no more. truly, in the final stretch, those last weeks that galloped by, my greatest concern was that i’d have to excuse myself to vomit in the toilet halfway, hopefully not more than once.

and so, the morning of, right before i left my kid to a day of ice cream and ferry rides with her grandfather, i took us all to breakfast at le grande cafe, where i had a big serve of buttery, buttered brioche toast, and a pot of tea. did i mention the butter? in retrospect, it may have been a slight miscalculation on my part. but there was no time for recrimination; i had to catch the bus home to fossick through my wardrobe for a skirt with enough give.

and you know what? it was fine. a cosy group of six scorpios-and-friends walked through the heavy steel gates, were greeted with big smiles and seated at a long sunlit table (diffused sunlight, through venetians) looking out onto the white pebble beach and the miniature waterfall.

the food was presented slow and steady, each a modest portion of perfectly balanced — sometimes literally — produce, so that there was enough time for tasting, and then savouring, and then shifting our bellies to find our balance. each course was formally introduced, and then we were left to enjoy the moment.

and it was all very enjoyable, although some at the table may argue that a different word be employed for the opening gambit of a cold sweetcorn soup served with a daub of saffron ice cream; it was hardly challenging food. well, it was challenging for the kitchen, i’m sure, to send out these intricately arranged platters en masse, but for us long lunchers, the flavours were well-considered, classic pairings with no jarring, challenging ingredients and no didactic textures. (foams! soils! i’m looking at you!)

crab and avocado. prawns and brie. duck and beetroot. berries and white chocolate. bread and butter — but what bread, and what butter: tangy, chewy sourdough rolls, and pots of butter whipped with ricotta, parmesan and black truffle into ethereal yellow splendour which we could not stop eating. there were surprises, yes, like a sticky soy caramel (a regular sugar and water caramel with a dash of soy sauce — kikkoman, the waitress thought — added in at the very end) over prawns, and then later, over the cannellini beans and mascarpone that served as the “transition” between savoury and sweet. or the pink peppercorns hidden in the sharp lime curd sandwiching a chocolate macaron.

and there were particular favourites that we wanted more of, and some that others vowed to recreate in sandwich form. though of course, it was hard to dislike anything when everything was cooked so perfectly. vegetable purees that were sublimely smooth, meat tender and juicy all the way through, seafood plump and moist, delicate tangles of exotic microherbs… and which pixie was it, whose light hands diced the pineapple into miniscule and perfect chunklets, and left it in the puddle of syrup at the bottom of the pineapple and amaretto sorbet? i would happily eat this every day.

at one point, when it became clear that we were more than halfway through the meal, a sadness came over me, a sense of regret that the experience would soon be over. but we live in the now, dammit, and the fourteen nows that passed that afternoon were thoroughly relished.

we sat down and ate for just short of five hours, and i did not have to get up and go to the toilet after all (and so will just have to go by wayne’s account of the linen napkins upon which to wipe your hands).

there was much laughter, and talk of good food (Q: what is your favourite food? A: chips!), and the waiters, in their crisp, fitted white shirts and tiny gold fleur-de-lise pins, were smiley and attentive, and ready to call you “sir” even if you were a ma’am.

around five o’clock, the petit fours numbered three — a coffee and date friand, a maccha marshmallow, and a chocolate macaron — and tea was poured from cast iron pots. we talked about how full we were, and then picked off the little treats one by one.

the sun outside was still beating down hot, but inside we were gloriously warm.