Then everyone agreed that small breasts were better than fake breasts, and a survey was taken: Who, among the men at the table, had actually been with a woman who had silicone implants? While no one admitted it, one man, an artist

in his mid-thirties, didn't deny it strongly enough. "You've been there," accused another man, a cherub-faced and very successful hotelier, "and the worst thing is. . you. . liked. . it."

"No, I didn't," the artist protested. "But I didn't mind it." Luckily, the first course arrived, and everyone filled up their wineglasses.

Next round: Are messy women better in bed? The hotelier had a theory. "If you walk into a woman's apartment and nothing's out of place, you know she's not going to want to stay in bed all day and order in Chinese food and eat it in bed. She's going to make you get up and eat toast at the kitchen table."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, because I'm literally the messiest person in the world. And I probably have some old containers of General Tso's Special Chicken lying under my bed at this moment. Unfortunately, all of it was eaten alone. So much for that theory.

Steaks were served. "The thing that really drives me crazy," said the artist,

"is when I see a woman wearing one of those tartan skirts and high knee socks. I can't work all day."

"No," countered the hotelier, "the worst thing is when you sort of follow a woman down the street and she turns around and she is as beautiful as you thought she was going to be. It represents everything you'll never have in your life."

The artist leaned forward. "I once stopped working for five years because of a woman," he said.

Silence. No one could top that.

The chocolate mousse arrived, and so did my date for Le Trapeze.