Truly, this is one of the best lunches in the world. An Asahi beer and all the sushi you can eat (or can afford, it's not the cheapest place in the world). And the food just keeps on coming. Sailing past your nose on the conveyor belt of earthly temptations. I don't know how but it seems I only ever choose one or two things and end up with six empty plates in front of me.
Anyway, I'm sat watching the unagi conga it's way round the tables and my trancelike state is disturbed by a group of Brits coming to sit opposite me.
Anywhere else in Paris and the Brits would be fine - tourists, inoffensive largely, as long as you close your ears when they massacre the local lingo. But this is the rue du Bac. Home to English folk what work here. Posh English folk what work here. Folk with nannies called Yasmeena and who 'do lunch' at the drugstore. Yuk.
So I'm bracing myself for much nuisance conversation. Discreetly I put away my English book and pull out a French magazine.
"So, how was the Bon March" said first posh girl. She pronounced it Bon March - not Bon Marché, as it is spelt. I'm cringeing already.
"Well", said Posh boy, "you know how she is". He points at second posh girl. "Looks lovely in everything but refuses to wear anything that's not a sack". He gives her a squeeze and she looks at him like he's just the most impossibly dreamy darling boy this side of Sloane Square.
" - " said second posh girl. Actually, I think it was a word, but it might just have been so posh that it was beyond the hearing capacity of normal folk.
"Really, darling, are you still doing that?" asked FPG. "I haven't done that since school. But we were all at it then. Used to hold each others hair out of the way and everything."
"Actually, I'm eating healthily these days", said SPG, "but I just can't keep the weight on".
And so the conversation went on. They chatted about nothing. About awful people that they knew and how daddy's business was doing so well despite, well, everything, darling.
The second posh girl stuffed her face. Stuffed it. Ate more than me.
As I was at the cash desk paying my bill, I noticed her coming back from the bathroom. She looked a little green and dishevelled, but doing a good job of pretending that she hadn't spent the last ten minutes being reunited with her lunch.
Lovely to see that she's living the dream of posh girls everywhere - flat in Paris, fancy lunch with darling friends, a good old spew and the promise of a shag from a chinless wonder.
Diana would be proud.