Curiously, to concentrate on flavours, I found myself sitting in the dark with my eyes closed. The dish was slimy, bitter and cloying, adjectives generally applied to failed politicians. The starter: some sludgy gnocchi swamped by a blue cheese and whisky dressing with, on the side, a scoop of nasty floral lavender ice cream, which tasted like the inside of an old lady's sock drawer. At £39 for three courses, it's also no bargain, and larceny for dishes this grim. We ordered the surprise menu, the surprise being that it's almost inedible.

But it also has to be nice to eat, and at Dans Le Noir it really isn't. Obviously there is an opportunity here to do something interesting, to put together unlikely flavour combinations in a way that, without visual cues, will intrigue and divert. However, I did end the night feeling truly sorry for one blind person: Peter. The blind do not, of course, want our pity. With his guidance, I eventually did OK, slipping my thumb over the rim to find the level of liquid. A few years ago, Peter ate at the Paris branch and found he was the only one with the self-confidence to pour the wine none of the sighted people felt able to do so. It isn't something that just happens for an hour or two.' Still, I encountered some interesting practical problems. 'No, because a part of it is knowing that you will never not be blind. Once at the table, I asked Peter if I was now a tourist in his world. It was interesting to feel the waitress groping about in the way I might.' We can make any length of journey, but the last two feet are always difficult. The service we received from them, Peter said, was 'confident but familiar. While the staff in the bar are sighted, those in the dining room are not. Just so we are in no doubt, it really is completely black: closed eyes, behind a blindfold in a blacked-out room. A darkly lit corridor then leads, via two sets of blackout curtains, to the dining room. At the front is a dimly lit, wood-floored bar area, lined with lockers where you stow personal items. 'Not a bad assumption, actually,' Peter said.Īs decor is not going to be a big part of this, I'll get it out of the way. I suggested it was because they thought all blind people are big drinkers. If there's a Braille menu I can read it to you.' There wasn't, though they did have the wine list in Braille. 'Usually in restaurants, people read me the menu. Still, he hoped there might be compensations.

'It really is a bit inconvenient,' he said. As he explained, the blind live in the world of the sighted and therefore have an expectation that those who can see may be relied upon for certain basic practicalities: where a step or doorway might be located in an unfamiliar room, for example. This, it turned out, was not quite the case. As my companion I invited Peter White, the BBC's disability affairs correspondent, on the grounds that to a blind man, it would be just another bloody restaurant.

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