I’ve been told Carne is the place to take someone before taking them. There is something about all that meat, ranging from blushing pink to bloody red, that’s undeniably sexy.
Served bare and moist, stripped down, there are no sauces or unguents to taint the predatory consumption of flesh.
Being a Carne virgin, I started slowly with asparagus enveloped in rocket and pecorino shavings, enhanced by the somewhat deviant addition of a fresh egg resting warmly, suggestively, on top.
But then the true purpose of the evening arrived, undeniably primal in its heady succulence. I eagerly took it between my lips and tenderly rolled every morsel of Wildebeest in my mouth, extracting the delicate pungency of fresh game on my tongue.
The seductive experience was accented by fine green beans and the lightest creamy mash, its paleness emphasising the savagery of my carnivorous undertaking. I rested frequently to imbibe silky sips of Jordan Merlot and abandoned myself to the lustful pleasure of crème caramel.
This is how meat should be savoured, like two lovers devouring each other until swollen and sated. I’m already anticipating future desire at Carne.