The world is your Oyster

Bibendum's Oyster Bar is, for me, a long-standing haunt, again associated with essential education for godsons whose parents have omitted to take them to the wilder shores of food or teach them what and how to eat with fingers - I recall with exquisite pleasure the expression of one such youth with his first oyster, his eyes widening in surprise in much the same way as those of my old dog, Mop, when I first taught her to eat grapes.

Preceded by the flurried preparation of the table with the necessary tools for shellfish, a basket of warm French bread, pale butter and chilled fizzy water, Scottish Rock oysters (£19 for 12) come with proper ceremony, bedded on a low Olympus of crushed ice, with lemons and a vinaigrette. One should never drink wine with them - the oyster is so subtle that even the most discreet Chablis is a spoiler, and fizzy water suits them best, enlivening the tongue.

The vinaigrette and lemons, too, are superfluous but too good to leave, and it is my custom to consume them afterwards, the one spooned onto bread, the others peeled and eaten whole ( reminding me of muddy breaks in rugger games - true, true, I was a hooker), preparing the palette for the crab.

My guest, trencherman as much as accomplished artist, disdained the crab, preferring lobster ( £ 31) - " less wrestling", he said. It came, as lobsters should, beautifully presented, meaty and inviting, approaching an adult 30cm in length and not one of those sad little soft-shelled minnows sold plasticwrapped by Marks and Sparks that should have been released from the lobster-pot to live another year or two.

My crab (£10.75) was whole; one can have crab shelled, boned, deflowered and otherwise prepared, but I prefer to do the surgery myself, the poking, prodding and scraping until the last morsel of flesh has been removed. Such labour puts an end to conversation, of course (though Michelangelo was as busy as I making his napkin dirty), and must be a reversion to the manners of the Stone Age, but who cares? There is a rum tactile pleasure in returning to the primitive. Both crab and lobster came with dishes of mayonnaise, again, in my view, a spoiler for such delicate flesh, but not on any account to be left untouched - we ate it in blobs on bread and butter and closed our minds to thoughts of death-dealing cholesterol.

For so much effort we both felt that further reward was required and chose, with no conviction, blackcurrant sorbet (£6); we were, however, right to choose it, for not only did it come in unusually large quantity, but proved to be a rival for nectar and ambrosia, with the slightly gooey smoothness for which the ice cream of Maras, in Anatolia, is celebrated - exquisite desert island food.

Lunch, I fear, was £113 and a hefty qualm of conscience. It need have been neither, for we could have stuck at half-adozen oysters each, or even three (as they do in Italy), or shared the lobster, or both had crab, or done without the sorbet - but we felt that it had been an occasion for mild gluttony. The waiters deserve a pat for prompt but unobtrusive attention, and - hurrah! - dogs are not forbidden, but a mastif f might be inconvenient. Dogs, I observe in passing, do not care for oysters, but they'd sell their little souls for mayonnaise.

Bibendum
Fulham Road, London, SW3 6RD