The lemon trifle.
You may think this pudding which I enjoyed at Bistroteque, down a dark alley in east London's fashionable (probably) Bethnal Green, is bathed in candlelight. But no, it is lit by a purely celestial glow. It was a dessert that came to me from heaven.
I wavered over my choice. But I was nobly shepherded towards it by our waiter, who assured me I would not be disappointed, and also revealed that my second choice, the apple crumble, had recently had a topping (by that I mean the stuff on the top, not, like, 'excellent' in Blytonese) makeover from granola-esque to the more conventional powdery crumbs, which in pudding terms, to me, spelt B.L.A.N.D.
So the trifle and I had our date with destiny. Let me tell you about its glorious strata:
citrus jelly (this has caused me to question my previously unshakeable and near-religious belief that there is no place for jelly in trifle)
possibly something else I am too dazed to remember
And – this part is the work of a demented genius – lemon granita on the top.
Lemon! Granita! On a trifle! Somewhere a world made of eggs, cream and sugar is spinning off its axis.