We had one of those rare Saturdays in London without the kids so we went for lunch at the much-hyped pop-up restaurant at Selfridges, created by Pierre Koffmann.

“Let’s try that place on the roof,” I said, calling up to book a table.

“Can you get here in ten minutes?”  said the woman on the phone.

“Seven.”

It’s impressive.  Even the loos look like they’ve been there for ages, definitely not the Glastonbury temporary-toilet variety.   You are greeted by three ladies in a room bedecked with white curtains and seagrass carpeting.  I use the word “ladies” deliberately, as they’re those rather homely looking women with big smiles on their faces who look like they can’t quite believe their luck at getting this meeting and greeting job just before Christmas.  Chatty, friendly, refreshingly different.  You can imagine them going home at the end of the day and telling their husbands exactly who came in, what they looked at, what was overheard in the (temporary) powder rooms.

The view is open, expansive, I had no idea how high up Selfridges is.  It’s not quite London Eye, but I’ve never seen this part of London so exposed.  Every so often a gust of wind blows some rope or other against the white canvas roof and you wonder if you might be blown away, part of some performance art you weren’t aware you had signed up to.  But after a few minutes being fussed over, you realise this is what’s been missing at Selfridges all along.  A rooftop restaurant.

The menu is less impressive.  That is, it’s Gascony food, which my husband knows his way around intimately, coming from that region as he does. He’s happy with snails, bone marrow and veal stuffed with boudin blanc.  The sea-bass was finished.  But I’m vegetarian.  The waitress almost did a sharp intake of breath, but was professional enough to offer me some off-menu choices.  ”We can do the leek terrine without the langoustines,” she said, “followed by pasta with mushrooms.”

It all sounded rather dull for my £75, so I ate half the bread basket while I was waiting to feel like I was getting value for money.  The leek terrine was beautiful to look at, but I’m not sure I’d go back for more. The pasta was delicious. It’s not pasta like Italians do, it’s been given that fiddly French finish where the sauce is not really a sauce but sparkly, light, frothy reminding me of that white bean cappucino they used to do at Aubergine. If I hadn’t eaten all the bread I might have been tempted to wipe my plate clean with it, it really was that delicious.

Olly  loved his starter of snails in a fricassee of mushrooms, with bone marrow, but wasn’t wowed by the truffle and boudin blanc stuffed veal with a pumpkin risotto.  He said it was perfectly put together but the combination was too heavy.  He complained of indigestion afterwards. (well, you would after all that, wouldn’t you?)

Because you have to pay for three courses you are determined to eat three courses, and the basket of bread, and the plants, and the seagrass carpet, and the soap in the toilets even when full up, so I obliged and managed half a chocolate mousse which looked delicious but really I was too full at this stage.  Olly said his walnut tart was incredible.

We didn’t order the coffee because it was £4.50 and somehow that annoyed me.  But the waitress insisted we have some petit fours, perhaps she sensed our impending poverty having been presented with a bill for £181.07, (one glass of valpolicella, and a bottle of water, £20.12 for service).  They were wrapped up in foil for us to take home, “Sorry I couldn’t fashion it into a swan!” she joked.

The place was packed.  Recession? What recession?

Oh, let them eat cake! Or at least petit fours..