For our final day in Sao Paulo Ann had laid on a special treat, not content with buying us the finest beers known to (Brazilian) man or feeding us enough meat to keep cattle farmers happy for years she had booked Ciara and I into a suite in the Sofitel for a night of all-inclusive five-star indulgence and sheer luxury.
The first extravagance of the day was lunch, the restaurant had laid on a buffet of food the like of which is only usually seen in films about Henry VIII, it was stacked with just about every foodstuff you could imagine and more than a few you never would (I give you potatoes in truffle oil – at least I would, if I hadn't eaten them). Ciara and I were just getting to grips with the mountains of upmarket fodder on offer, as well as pondering how many trips to the buffet would be considered vulgar, when Ann pointed out 'That table is just the starters, you order from this menu'.
A feast fit for a king and two bottles of red later we got to our room – thank christ for the lift, the stairs would have killed me.
Just as I was relaxing, watching some comedy goalkeeping and thinking this can't get any better there was a knock on the door 'Mr Walsham, I am your butler for the evening, would you like me to unpack your...' she surveyed the room '...backpack?'. Not wanting to offend the young lady's delicate sense of smell, I politely declined the offer.
Having dispensed with the complimentary champagne (the manager explained that they were right out of brown ale), grapes and several gin & tonics the last thing on our mind was more food but no one else was going to eat it for us so we decided to give it our best shot and go for something light – I chose the prawn and caviar starter, and a quail stuffed with foie gras for my main course. Geese everywhere can rest assured they took their revenge later that evening as I lay in bed more bloated than a wind sock on Everest.
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