The signs were bad, for so many reasons. Firstly, there was my friend Jack’s claim that he knew “this great little Italian”. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard this announcement, but it’s often enough to twig that “great little” usually means “cheap(ish), for the very good reason that the food is – at best – average”. Secondly, there was the fact that the restaurant in question was in the stretch of Rue Haute halfway between the flea market and the bottom of the Sablon; an area where the onus is more on fashion statements than on culinary excellence.