More on the origins of “Lunch Club” some other time… for now, suffice to say it’s an exclusive, by-invitation-only, not-so-secret-society of escapist, day-dreaming, desk-bound omnivores. Lunch is a vehicle used not only to transport ourselves swiftly from starving to stuffed but also to convey our travelling tastebuds from the restful mundane to the reste du monde. Bon. I don’t know about you, but all that French practice has made me hungry… first thing’s first, pick up some groceries.
This savvy swine was able to do so at the Marylebone branch of London’s luscious La Fromagerie while wandering home one sunny evening from Mayfair to Maida Vale. Lucky me… lucky Lunch Club.
1 creamy ball o’ burrata
1 springy loaf of Poilane sliced sour dough
1 bursting at the seams Couer de Boeuf tomato
1 bunch of fresh basil wrapped up in brown paper like a bouquet of flowers (pathetic premium paid for soil encrusted roots)
1 head of delicate leafy greens
And bonus round… a loving spoonful of last night’s leftover orecchiette tossed in a tub of La Fromagerie’s perky pesto
Hack open that beckoning burrata and lay lovingly on toasted bread. Slice tomato. Scatter shredded basil with abandon (note: shake dirt off from roots AWAY from your lunch plate… oops… I’m sure Alain Ducasse is down with a bit of French dirt?! OK maybe not. His food is perfect. I digress.). Serve with delicately dressed salad and pasta on the side. Drizzle Mandranova oil over pretty much everything you see in front of you. Salt, pepper, vinegar to taste… you know the drill.