There is a lunch we cook, in the atelier, on the days a decision has to be made. Rinsed basmati, folded through with a small vessel of saffron infusion in the last minute of cooking. A roast, plain, from the market on the rue de Bretagne. A glass of water. Bread if there is bread. Nothing else on the table.
It is not a menu, exactly. It is a habit — a way of making the room quiet enough that the day's real question can be heard. The rice does most of the work; the saffron does the rest.