The Palais du Rumine is named for Gabriel de Rumine (1841-71), a Russian aristocrat who lived in Lausanne for a while and bequeathed his estate to the city, which used the funds to build this palace. The Florentine-style (I’d never have known it was that; that’s quoted from the Lausanne guide map) palace was officially inaugurated in November 1906, though work continued for a further three years. It’s an ornate building, even on the outside, with large carved medallions, semi-circular arches, pediments and fussy columns and striking greenish statues of winged lions and whatnot. Quite picturesque, especially as there are fountains and a bed of tightly-packed flowers—pale yellow and purple—in the large square in front of the palace. It is, unsurprisingly, a popular place to sit around and watch the world go by, or even just to rest a bit after tramping about the museums.

The Palais du Rumine is home to several museums, spread across different floors. At first glance, these may appear like merely different galleries of a single museum, but make no mistake: they are different museums, each with its own entrance fee. These range between CHF6 to 8 per person (excluding special rates for children and groups), but if you’ve got a Swiss pass, there’s no need to worry: it’s valid in all the museums, though a couple of them may issue you a `fake ticket’ as part of their paperwork. On to our experiences of the museums, now.

Musée de Zoologie: The first museum we visited was the museum of zoology. The girl at the counter was friendly, and handed us a free guide. A look at the guide—which contains a brief gist of the museum’s history, as well as a couple of sentences about each gallery, including its star exhibits—and we knew that this was one place that appeared to cater almost exclusively to a pre-teen audience. The illustrations on the guide looked like they were out of a comic strip, and as we progressed through the museum, we saw descriptions, astounding facts and interesting snippets of information about the animal world alongside the exhibits—all of them presented in a way that would appeal to children.

The museum itself is almost exactly a hundred years old: it opened in September 1909, although a number of the exhibits had been acquired as far back as 1818. The metallic display cabinets are from 1909, and there’s literally dozens of them in the Great Gallery, neatly lined up and filled with a vast array of stuffed birds, mammals, reptiles, fish and whatnot, each meticulously labelled with its common name, Latin name, and region of habitation. We were admiring the birds (which are especially colourful) when a troop of school children—chattering and very loud, with a teacher who couldn’t seem to control them at all burst in. We moved on, trying to keep ahead of them, but were overtaken at the end of the museum, where there’s a display of large marine life, including a swordfish, a massive turtle, and a 5.89 mt long great white shark—the largest such preserved shark in the world. According to our museum pamphlet, only the fins, flippers and teeth are real; the rest is a plaster cast.

In another gallery, we came across displays of insects, crustaceans, and molluscs. One section of this gallery, known as the Comparative Anatomy Room, houses animals preserved in formaldehyde: foetuses (including human) and so on. Squeamish ol’ me came out of there pronto, but other than that particular gallery, this is an interesting museum, and (as evidenced by the hordes of children), definitely a must-do if you’ve got kids in tow.

Musée Cantonal de Geologie: After a brief rest at an indoor fountain featuring a metal statue of a huge mythical fish (the Palais du Rumine is dotted with interesting statues, carving and mosaics), we moved on to the Museum of Geology, which consists of two separate sections: the Hall of Palaeontology, and the Hall of Mineralogy & Geology. Both were established in 1818, though of course set up here at the Palais du Rumine only in 1909.

We began with the Hall of Palaeontology, officially known as the Salle Philippe de la Harpe, after the surgeon and amateur palaeontologist who was director of the museum between 1858 and 1864. De la Harpe, according to the English-language pamphlet we were given at the entrance. "built up a world renowned collection of nummulites (unicellular organisms with a shell), which totalled more than 13,000 specimens when he died in 1882.". Wow. That was one dedicated palaeontologist.

The Hall of Palaeontology contains delights such as the only complete dinosaur skeleton to be found in Switzerland; a mammoth skeleton unearthed in Jura in 1959; and dozens of fossils, including ammonites, an archaeopteryx, and fossil fish. The pamphlet for this hall is especially good: it highlights the main exhibits, and provides highly interesting information about them—for instance, that 23 million years ago, Lausanne was tropical and looked rather like the Ganges Delta does today. With the help of the guide, we did a quick circuit of the hall (it was crowded with school children), checking out the amber, the Tyrannosaurus Rex skull, etc, before moving on to the next hall.

The Hall of Mineralogy and Geology is officially called the Salle E Renevier, after Eugène Renevier, director of the museum from 1864 to 1906. This one’s the sort of museum that would appeal to a little girl (well, I’m distantly related to a Barbie-loving little girl who would have adored it!): all pretty crystals, and in huge quantities. The dark hall is lined with display cases carefully lit to highlight the beauty of the vast collection of gemstones, minerals and crystals here: there are foot-high sections of mauve-purple amethyst, fist-sized chunks of turquoise and jade, pieces of opalescent (what else?!) opal, haematite, lapis-lazuli, sulphur and much more, all glowing and shimmering and looking straight out of a fantasy film. Interesting, of course, but gorgeous too, and both Tarun and I were totally bedazzled. Among the most intriguing exhibits is a 120kg chunk of meteorite which landed in Namibia.

Musée de Beaux Arts: We’d been looking forward to our tour of the museum of fine arts, since we’re both very keen on painting and sculpture. The Musée de Beaux Arts, however, was not just a damp squib, but sodden to the core. All we could see was a single gallery hosting an exhibition by a Belgian artist (the work was so unappealing, I’ve even forgotten the artist’s name—and never noted it down). Yes, I suppose to some the paintings were profound and full of meaning, but to us, at least, they didn’t make any sense. They didn’t even look nice, so after trudging along for a few minutes and trying to pretend we were interested, we bowed ourselves out and went on down to the next museum.

Musée d’ archaeologie et d’histoire: The museum of archaeology and history focuses on Lausanne and its canton—the Canton of Vaud—over the centuries. This is a well arranged museum, and if you follow the path correctly, you’ll actually be following a timeline, with artefacts arranged along the way. We wandered through, admiring the artefacts, which range from the Neolithic and the Bronze ages, through the Roman occupation of the area, past medieval times and to the 1800’s. The types of artefacts are very varied: we saw a Neolithic grave, old pottery and ornaments, some lovely 13th century tiles, and—in the section on the 19th century—the death mask and some of the personal effects of Napoleon himself. Our favourites, though, were probably the dioramas depicting life in Lausanne through the ages. These are tiny three-dimensional representations of a hunt in the woods, a fishermen’s stilt-propped hut beside Lac Leman (with the family going about its work), and so on: very cute and informative. Also interesting is the timeline at the end of the gallery, each important section of Lausanne’s history being represented by one artefact. The timeline actually extends into the 31st century, with the 21st century being represented by a badly battered, dirty and half-burnt CD. Cool!

Of the four museums, the first two—zoology and geology—are extremely popular with schoolchildren, so be prepared. I can’t vouch for it, but would assume that weekends might be a better time to visit if you quail at the thought of being surrounded by a chattering gaggle of children.

We’d spent a little while wandering around Lutry, which has pretty cobbled streets, wrought-iron signs, lots of tea rooms and a fine promenade along the lake front. After a bit of walking along, we were hungry enough for lunch, so chose one of the many cafés along the lakefront. We soon realised that finding a place to eat was going to be a lot tougher than we’d imagined: every café was either already full or required reservations; others were either not interesting or too expensive. Finally, tucked away in a lane, just a little off the lakeshore, we found a pretty little restaurant with a sturdy grapevine growing so thick over the name of the restaurant that it took some effort to read it: the Restaurant du Leman. Two large windows looked out onto the street, and a clutch of tables, all covered with cheerful orange-and-yellow printed tablecloths, had been placed outside along with black plastic chairs. The window boxes were bursting with smiling pansies, and the general air was one of welcome.

Restaurant du Leman is obviously not a tourist-oriented restaurant: the menu, unlike most we saw in Switzerland, is only in French, and even the waitresses didn’t speak English. Fortunately, Tarun and I can both understand enough French (especially when it comes to food) to know what we’re ordering, and with a little bit of to and fro, we managed to place our orders easily. Our drinks—a half bottle of a very pleasant Chardonnnay, white and crisp—arrived shortly, followed soon after by our food.

Since the restaurant specialises in fish dishes, both of us had ordered fish. Tarun’s was a perche à la Provençe, a helping of tiny fillets of perch in one of the best tomato sauces I’ve ever had. I steer clear of tomato-based sauces as a rule, because the sour-sweet flavour of tomatoes is often overpowering. This one was perfect: not too sweet, not too sour, and in just the correct quantity to let the flavour of the fish shine through. On the side, Tarun got fries (steamed rice or potatoes—either boiled or as fries—were the options along with each main course). Also with the fish came a helping of chopped and sautéed vegetables: delicious.

I got the same vegetables with my main course, plus steamed rice. The star of the meal, however, was the filet de loup de mer au fenouil that I’d ordered. This consisted of two firm and very fresh fillets of sea bass, pan-fried in olive oil with fennel seeds and salt, till the skin was crisp and the fish just so. It was one of the most beautifully simple dishes I’ve ever eaten, and Tarun—after begging for a forkful—wished he’d ordered it too, even though the perch was very good.

This proved to be our most expensive meal in Switzerland: CHF108, including a CHF5 tip. But the food had been so good, we didn’t mind too much. I would, however, have liked the fish to have been a more sizeable portion: for both Tarun and I, the rice or potatoes, and the bread, ended up comprising most of the meal.

And yes: interestingly enough, alongside the distinctly French dishes, there’s also a Peruvian menu. We didn’t explore that, but I wonder how authentic it would be, tucked away in Lutry!

We’d walked uphill from the Place de la Gare, along the Rue du Petit-Chêne, when we arrived at the square known as Place St François, most of it occupied by the church. Tramlines and loads of greenery—trees and shrubs—got in the way of getting a decent long shot of the church, but once we’d crossed over into the immediate vicinity of the church, it got a little easier to see the building. This was constructed in the 13th and 14th centuries at the site of a former Franciscan monastery (which accounts for the name of the church). The Reformation, as in a number of other Swiss churches, resulted in the church being stripped of its decoration, but much of it, on the exterior, was restored in the 1990’s. Must have been pretty austere to start off with, thought Tarun and I: the outside of St François’s is beige stone, all straight lines unrelieved by any fussy carving: there are arched windows, a couple of flying buttresses, an arched doorway and a green spire jutting behind a reddish tiled roof, but that’s it. If you’re expecting interesting gargoyles, lacy carving and elaborate tympani as in the cathedrals at Bern or Strasbourg, this isn’t the place to visit. About the only somewhat decorative element is the main door, an arched verdigris-green one divided into four quarters, each decorated with a figure: an angel, a winged lion, a winged bull and what looked like a badly-made eagle.

Inside, the church proved to be a little more decorative. No heavy gilt (though the organ has its fair share of both gilt and polished wood), no intricate carving, not even the carved choir stalls that we saw in other churches. The only concessions to decoration that we could see were the bright stained glass windows with their images of Christ and the apostles. There was no indication of how old these were, but old or new, they were lovely panels, with the glass painstakingly worked.

The other important decorative element, and one I found especially nice, were the arabesque-like black patterns painted on the arched cream-painted vaulted ceiling. Not exceptionally ornate (in fact, they looked rather like they’d been stencilled on), but definitely very attractive. Some sections of the ceiling are decorated with coats of arms—we noticed the white crane on a red ground (the emblem of Gruyères)—as well as others.

Entrance to the Eglise de St François is free, and photography is allowed.

But, to put an end to this digression: we decided one day to go visit Lutry. Lutry is a picturesque village, all cobbled streets and quaint houses, along the shore of Lac Leman, north of Lausanne on the way to Montreux. Our relatives advised us to take a boat to Lutry, since it’s a short trip, and the boat ride is scenic. Paddle steamers set off from the quays at Lausanne-Ouchy, doing the leisurely Pully-Lutry-Montreux-Vevey-Chillon circuit, so we took the Metro and went off to Ouchy to catch the boat. At the ticket office, we discovered that we had over an hour to spare: the next boat to Lutry was at 11.45 AM, and here it was 10.30. Tarun and I aren’t ones for sitting around and watching the daisies grow, so we whipped out our map and checked if there were any sights in the vicinity, and sure enough, there was one: the Musée d’Elysée.

On the map, the Musée d’Elysée looked deceptively close to the lakeshore. We didn’t realise, however, that it’s uphill all the way, so it took us nearly 20 minutes of walking to get there—and no, we didn’t crawl. Most of the route uphill was along main roads, but then there was a sudden turn to the right, and we found ourselves in a park, with stretches of grass, flowerbeds, and lots of trees. From here, two curving stone staircases—like the horns of a bull—led up to an English garden (topiary, statues standing amidst flowering bushes, and so on). Beyond the garden was the front of the museum, a building that was originally an 18th century mansion. It still looks attractive, with tall windows along the front, topped by a curving pediment with a coat of arms.

A little exploring and we discovered that the entrance to the museum is round the back, on the right—and that the museum doesn’t open till 11. Drat! If we had to get back to the quay by 11.40 (in Switzerland, everything starts on time, so we could be certain the boat would depart at 11.45), we’d need to leave by around 11.20 or so. 20 minutes to see a museum? Oh no.

We spent the next 5 minutes waiting for the Musée d’Elysée to open, and when it did, followed the docent in. Our Swiss pass was valid here, though a fee of CHF8 per person is charged otherwise. No photography, of course, is allowed. The Musée d’Elysée boasts of a collection of over 100,000 original prints from the 19th and 20th centuries. Not all of these are on display all the time, so the actual number of photos we could see was relatively small, which was a blessing, since we had so little time.

We began by wandering around the ground and first floors, which were hosting exhibitions of photos by Carlo Valsecchi and Savona. Valsecchi specialises, as we were informed by a brief note at the beginning of the exhibition, in industrial photography. This encompasses everything from photos of landfills and rotting, desolate fields to close-ups of circuitry and machinery. We tried very hard to appreciate these, and to unearth the hidden meaning (industry is intriguing? Industry destroys the natural world?), but to not much avail. Tarun, who has far less patience than I, hustled us on to the Savona exhibition, which was basically a series of photographs—dozens and dozens of them—of boxes of fruit and vegetable. "We can see those at the market," Tarun snapped. "In fact, I’ll take photos at the Rue du Bourg farmers’ market, if you’re keen on them." We were already at 11.10, and with only about 15 minutes left for us to leave, Tarun was getting panicky, so we galloped downstairs to the basement.

The basement had two more exhibitions, and these were so refreshingly different from what we’d already seen, we couldn’t help but slow down and admire them.

The first exhibition was a study of early 20th century Russia seen through a camera: black and white images of people on a train, women at work in a field, men in a factory, and lots more, all stark and evocative of a forgotten era. My favourite picture was right at the beginning, staring us in the face as we came down the stairs. The last Czar, Nikolai sits astride a horse, surrounded by a half-dozen or so soldiers who stand stiffly to attention while the Czar looks over them towards the camera. Mesmerising.

The second exhibition was more contemporary: Jacques Pugin’s Sacred Site collection. These were a set of stunning photographs, large and colour-drenched visuals of sunlit sand dunes, rainforests in a million shades of green, the Namib Desert, and other scenes, both with and without humans. Each photo was nothing short of spectacular.

It was already 11.25, so we rushed off, but with the satisfaction of knowing that we’d managed to see some very good photography. Exhibitions keep changing, so what you’ll find when you visit is anybody’s guess, but you’re certain to find a blend of modern and old prints covering a range of subjects and styles. Do also remember to have a look at the little shop at the entrance: they sell postcard-size reproductions of the museum’s collection, including stuff you may not see on display when you visit—we saw some great black and white photos here.

The girl at the reception counter spoke fluent English and was a sweet, friendly person who glanced at our Swiss pass and gave us the happy news that it was valid in the museum. She wished us a good visit, and so we went off downstairs one level to begin our explorations.

The first gallery we came to, in the basement, was the Views of Lausanne section, a series of paintings by artists famous and obscure. Some of these depictions are exceptionally good. For example, there’s a scene of Lausanne in winter, the cathedral’s spire towering above snowy roofs while two figures in the foreground collect firewood. Another painting, which I immediately categorised as hot favourite, was an Impressionist view of Ouchy, by Edouard Hosch: sunset-tinted clouds, the lake in the background, a stone hut and two women at work. There are lots of other paintings too, of monuments in Lausanne (the cathedral is particularly prominent); of the cityscape; and of people—lovers, workers, etc—going about in Lausanne.

Also in the basement is the archaeological section, which includes artefacts dug up in Lausanne: there are the usual arrowheads, shards of pottery, ornaments and so on, but also a Neolithic grave, complete with some of the bones of a female skeleton.

Ascending from the basement, we found ourselves being hijacked by our friend the receptionist, who pointed out the model room and told us that she’d start the sound-and-light show, in English, for us. This was a little ambiguous but we sat down dutifully in the small room. The wall on our left had a large painting of Lausanne; this, we later discovered, was more a map than a mere painting. It dates back to 1638 and was created by a certain David Buttet. In front of us, encased in a very large glass case, was a three-dimensional model of Lausanne, based on Buttet’s map. The room was very dimly lit to begin with, so we could see very little of the model: lots of sloping roofs, the cathedral, some more church spires. Huh?

And then the sound-and-light show started, approximately 15 minutes of an absorbing narration that explained the origins of Lausanne, its development, how people lived and worked here in earlier centuries, and how the different quarters of Lausanne grew. Accompanied by the sound and light effects, this was an enjoyable snapshot of the city’s history.

Lausanne’s history, of course, is what the museum’s all about, and the galleries above the ground floor allow visitors a glimpse of medieval and even modern Lausanne. The medieval section is much like what we later saw all across museums in Switzerland (actually, what we’ve also seen elsewhere in Europe too). There’s the usual panoply of weapons, armour, old paintings and statues, and even some rather unusual artefacts: a 12th century missal, for example.

One gallery is devoted to the cathedral, and another contains statues from across Lausanne. Among the latter is the Statue of Justice, a stone figure of a blindfolded woman. This originally stood in the Place du Palud but was pulled down and installed here for its preservation—its place in the square has been taken by a replica that’s brightly painted and gilded, with the sword and the scales that Justice holds, intact. The statue at the museum doesn’t have her hands any longer, so the tools of her trade are missing as well.

What I liked best of all was the gallery on 19th century and early 20th century Lausanne. This was full of delightfully quirky and quaint stuff: a carriage; advertisements and posters; old photographs, cameras and photographic equipment; dolls and toys; clothing; and—my favourite—a pacheesi board on which the pieces were all painted to depict 19th century European soldiers. The board even had a painting of a battle, with sabres flying as cavalry went into action. Fabulous!

The Musée Historique had originally been the residence of the bishops of Lausanne (which explains its proximity to the cathedral). Since most rooms have been converted into the museum’s galleries, we couldn’t see much of what this mansion would have been like when it housed a bishop. But there are sections where you can get a glimpse of a Lausanne bishop’s lifestyle (and it must have been pretty comfortable, to say the least). The kitchen, for instance, has been replicated with pots, pans, crockery—even fake garlic and a hen peeking out from under a counter. The Salle de Musique has old musical instruments, and we noticed carved and painted sections of the original building in places.

The museum is closed on Mondays. Entrance fees are CHF8 per person, unless you have a Swiss pass, in which case it’s free. Photography is allowed, but without a flash. A free guide, with brief explanations about each section, is available in various languages including English, although labels on individual exhibits are only in French.

Do remember to step out into the bishop’s garden—with gravel, lots of flowers, a bench under a shady tree and a panoramic view of Lausanne, it’s a lovely little nook which few people seem to visit.

The cousin with whom we were staying in Lausanne had given us detailed instructions, so after getting off the Metro at Lausanne Gare, our first task was to find the tourist office and get a map of Lausanne. You don’t really even need to search for the cathedral on the map: it’s the city’s pride and joy, so images of it—photos, illustrations, little icons—are plastered liberally across all tourist literature.

The trek up from Place de la Gare (the main railway station of Lausanne) to the Cathedral was longish, and uphill all the way. It’s a gentle climb most of the way, and with interesting sights en route as well: the Eglise de St François, the Rue de Bourg (which, since it was a Saturday, was home to a colourful and attractive farmers’ market), across the imposing bridge of the Pont Charles Bessières, and finally up a steep incline to the cathedral itself, with its 75mt steeple rising high above the surrounding roofs.

Officially known as the Cathédrale de Nôtre-Dame, the Lausanne Cathedral was constructed between the mid 12th century and the 13th century. The original site had been a Roman camp, which had later given way to, in turn, Carolingian and Romanesque basilicas. This church, we realised even before we got there, is no upstart.

On the outside, the cathedral is grand enough, but not in the staggeringly awesome styles of, for instance, the Nôtre-Dame in Paris or the Stephansdom in Vienna. The roofs are red tiled, the steeple multiple-sided, and like most of the exterior, of plain grey stone. It was only when we got to the cathedral and made our way around to the western entrance—known as the Montfalcon Portal—that we stopped and stared, eyes goggling, at the superbly carved tympanum of the portal. This is carving at its most ornate: a pointed arch, carved with row upon row of Biblical scenes, the Last Judgement, statues of the saints, and fine tracery.

This intricate carving, though it’s tinged with black and looks positively ancient, isn’t however authentic. All the statues here are replicas of carvings originally made between 1515 and 1536.

Inside, the cathedral proved relatively austere. Rows of plain wooden pews—cane-seat chairs joined together in rows with a long bar of wood near the ground—stretch below a plain grey vaulted ceiling. The arched walls on either side have rows of circular arches along the top and there are some stained glass windows, but that’s it. Not much there to distract worshippers from their devotions. Incidentally, the church, though it was consecrated in 1275 by Pope Gregory X, has been Protestant ever since the Reformation.

A little exploration, though, and we did find traces of some very fine decoration. The Rose Window wins hands down, with its fine depictions of figures (I hadn’t thought to carry my binoculars so couldn’t see these very well; Biblical figures, one assumes). It consists of over a hundred component pieces of stained glass and dates back to the 13th century. It looms up above the altar, on one side, and surrounding the altar is a sort of semicircular `well’ that contains the plaques and memorials of various personages through the years.

The two other highlights of the cathedral are the Chapelle St Maurice and the vestibule. The Chapelle St Maurice was my favourite: I’m partial to loads of highly carved and polished wood, and the fine carving of the Gothic stalls in this chapel left me dazzled. Awesome.

The vestibule, which juts out on one side of the cathedral, is a good place to sit for a spell. No chairs here, but Tarun and I found a low ledge that made a convenient (if hard) bench and offered a good view of the vestibule’s interior. This is decorated all over the inside with carvings and Gothic murals from the 1500’s, and is worth at least a couple of minutes’ ogling.

With piped choral music playing softly in the background, flowers around the altar, and just a few other visitors, the Lausanne Cathedral was, in our opinion, a great start to our vacation. The fact that there’s no entry fee is, of course, in its favour. But then so are the added attractions around: there’s a large terrace outside that offers a fabulous view of the city, Lac Leman and the Alps; there’s the picturesque winding wooden staircase known as the Escalier du Marché, which leads down to Rue Mercerie, and there’s the superb Musée Historique, opposite the cathedral.

A must see.

The waiter must have noticed our half-starved expressions, so he fetched the menus for us very quickly—and we ordered just as rapidly. The good bit about the Brasserie St Laurent is that it doesn’t confuse you by offering a vast range of dishes: there are four set meals, and you choose one of those. Simple. Tarun ordered a fillet de perch meuniere, while I ordered a rôti de veau aux champignons as a main course. For drinks, we both opted for a Swiss wine, an Ollons: red for me, white for Tarun.

While waiting for our food to arrive, we had a quick look about the restaurant from our place near the window, and were struck by the somewhat eccentric eclecticism of the decor. The long curving bar counter, with white bar stools in front and rows of gleaming bottles at the back, takes up a large portion of the interior. The rest is crowded with wooden tables like ours. The walls are decorated with mirrors (lots of these: is it to keep a tab on guests who might walk off with the cutlery?), prints of Impressionist art, and odds and ends—behind Tarun, for instance, was a shelf on which stood two straw rabbits wearing blue overalls. Yes, well.

Our table had a little plastic flowerpot filled with fake red flowers, and we were busy trying to not look at it when the waiter arrived with our wine and a basket of bread. The food arrived soon after. Tarun’s perch meuniere was preceded by a large salad of mixed leaves drizzled over with a tart mayonnaise-based dressing. The fish (which, by the way, you’ll see a lot of around Lausanne, supposedly fresh from Lac Leman) followed the salad. This was tiny fillets of deliciously fresh perch served with brown butter and lemon, with a huge serving of fries, and a bowl of the most exquisite tartare sauce I’ve ever tasted: gloriously tart and flavourful.

My roast veal with mushrooms (isn’t champignons mushrooms?) was, on the other hand, disappointing. The mushrooms were conspicuous by their absence—despite much searching, I couldn’t find even a scrap of mushroom; perhaps they were part of the sauce? The veal consisted of four thick and none-too-tender slices of meat. On the side were a plateful of buttered flat noodles, and a serving of steamed vegetables. The green beans, sadly, had been steamed to the point of disintegration. Not nice at all.

Dessert was the same for both of us: a glass goblet full of wedges of fresh strawberries, topped off with whipped cream. Simple yet good.

We paid up CHF44, which (considering we had wine, a main course and dessert) was reasonable. But then, though Tarun’s main course had been excellent, mine was definitely below average. If I had to go back to the Brasserie St Laurent, I’d probably do so only if there wasn’t another restaurant around. I wouldn’t order veal. And yes, I’d insist we sit outside, where one can have a good view of the nearby Eglise de St Laurent, and one is spared the necessity of making conversation under the gimlet-eyed stare of a straw rabbit.