‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘This is something you’ve got to try …’

The waiter returned with a chilled champagne-style bottle. He popped the cork and Ekatherina again took the lead and tasted it, nodding enthusiastically. After the waiter had filled his glass, Ansgar took a sip. His mouth filled with a fragrant effervescence.

‘This is beautiful,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Really beautiful.’

‘It’s Krimart,’ she said, gratified. ‘It’s from the Artyomovsk winery in the Donetsk region. It was founded by a German, you know. A Prussian. It was what Stalin and all the communist bosses liked to drink.’

Ansgar watched Ekatherina eat and talk. Naturally, she did most of the talking, her German charmingly accented, but most of all Ansgar watched her eat. During the meal, Ekatherina worked hard to coax out of Ansgar some of the details of his childhood, family, what had made him want to be a chef. Ansgar found himself wanting to be more conversational; easier, more interesting company. Most of all, he wished he could sit here in this Ukrainian restaurant with an attractive young woman and be someone else: someone with a normal life and normal urges.

Ekatherina didn’t seem to worry about Ansgar’s taciturnity. She talked at length about her childhood in Ukraine; about the astounding beauty of the land and the warmth of the people.

Ansgar listened and smiled. Ekatherina was dressed in what he guessed was her best outfit. It clearly wasn’t expensive but it showed an element of taste. The white blouse was open to the third button and when Ekatherina leaned forward Ansgar could see the full swell of her breasts, pale and smooth. He appreciated the effort she had made. But all through the meal he sought to keep from his mind those dark fantasies that he had formed around her.

They took a taxi from the restaurant. The food, Ansgar had to admit, had been interesting. It was always a strange, even difficult thing for Ansgar to enjoy a meal in another restaurant. To start with, he was never treated as an ordinary customer: he had a reputation and anyone who knew anything about Cologne’s food scene knew who he was. Ansgar had been sure he had heard his name amongst the babble of Ukrainian words exchanged between Ekatherina and the waiter. The other problem he had was the way he had to try to leave his professional self outside and simply enjoy the experience for its own sake. The truth was that Ansgar analysed every mouthful, judged flavour combinations, assessed layout on the plate. Ansgar was an artist, and he liked to compare the brushwork of others to see if there was anything he could learn from it. Many subtle nuances that had been added to some of his most highly regarded dishes had been inspired by a cruder expression in some second-class eatery.