Friday at Franco’s

This week, before I leave for the stables, Bruno and I go on a long early morning walk.

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The objective, like preparing for an international flight, or a long train ride, is to exhaust Bruno, so that he has no energy to feel overly anxious when left alone, or confined.  Because he is very intelligent and so eager to please, the other objective is to create a sequence of events that he can identify with my leaving.

He’s been quite the trooper.

IMG_7244 (Good Boy Bruno.  Goodbye, Bruno.)

I’ve managed to leave the home without his plaintive wailing thus far.  I’m not sure what he does when I’m gone.  There’s no sign of destruction when I come home.  I hope he’s fast asleep in my absence.

To reward him for his excellent behaviour, we went to lunch today with one of his favourite persons, Zen. Bruno likes to lunch!

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Zen suggested Franco’s off Piccadilly in St James, equidistance from both our homes.  I think it’s the oldest Italian restaurant in London.

When I called to make a reservation mentioning Bruno, the woman on the phone assured me saying, “A small dog?  Of course!  We love dogs!”

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Lunch was bustling with an older, corporate crowd.  We were given a table right in the centre of the main dining room and the service delivered today offered that fine mix of attention and discretion.

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Decor-wise, Zen commented that it doesn’t quite look like the sort of place we would normally eat at.  But we both ooh-ed and ah-ed at the wallpaper in the bathroom.

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I was served a generous heap of burrata, and my minestrone although a curious shade of green, was deliziosio.

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Bruno?

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Agreed.

  •  Franco’s Restaurant, 61 Jermyn Street, St James

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