Did you see the photo of Sarah, Duchess of York taken for Italian Vogue magazine? In diamond-dripping, cleavage-baring style, Fergie sends out a defiant message to divorcees the world over. Look at me, she seems to be saying, middle age doesn't have to mean goodbye to glamour. Until, that is, you look at the unflattering picture of her on holiday in Spain and realise that, in these airbrushing days, the camera most definitely does lie.

Honesty comes in many shades of grey. It's only a bit dishonest to doctor a photo (how Cherie Blair must have been tempted when it came to their annual Christmas card), especially in a world in which image is all. Fergie wants us to think that despite bad press, fluctuating weight and ostracism by the Royal Family, she's even more stunning than when she married one of the country's most eligible men (he was, I promise you).

The latest furore about foie gras is less dishonest than disingenuous. Every few years someone throws a spotlight on how badly birds are treated in the pursuit of this gastronomic treat. Geese are forced to eat more than they would normally eat, and our feathered friends are then killed for their fatty livers. Animal rights group PETA highlighted this alleged cruelty in a video narrated by Sir Roger Moore (rest easy, Daniel Craig, there is an acting future after James Bond), and middle-class foodies have always put it up there with veal on their 'I can't eat that' list.

But suddenly, the campaign has gone up a gear. Pope Benedict XVI has condemned force-feeding, the Dutch royal family won't serve foie gras, and even beefy Arnold Schwarzenegger has signed a law banning it in California. Harvey Nichols has ceased trading in it (Sainsbury's ducked out last year - as if anyone would buy foie gras at Sainsbury's), and only dear old Al Fayed, with his unerring eye for free publicity, has vowed that Harrods will continue to stock it.

Has big business suddenly a) acquired a conscience; b) jumped on the latest bandwagon; or c) are they scared of a load of crusty old campaigners picketing their stores? Now I don't know about you, but tell me I can't have something and it immediately goes to the top of my wish-list. It's why I've recently been tempted to smoke (something I hadn't done since inhaling the Slim Panatela that turned me green at 17). And it's why I went to Comptoir Gascon, which unashamedly sells foie gras in both its bistro and the adjoining deli.

Comptoir's food and wines are sourced from southwest France, of which Toulouse is the capital, and so I took a linguist friend who'd studied at the university there. When I asked him to describe Toulouse in two words he said 'pink' (it's known as the Rose city) and 'perky' (it's the second-biggest campus in France and also, of course, home to the wonderful Airbus).

Comptoir feels like a deli that has become a bistro, which is precisely what's happened as (sadly) not enough people used it as their dinner-party take-away. The bistro has high ceilings, big counters and lots of wood, with small (but perfect) tables and surprisingly comfortable chairs. At lunchtime there seemed a wholesome mix of people just wanting good food and a few 'client handling' folk from creative agencies in Smithfield.

To begin, we ordered foie gras, and I guiltily kept thinking of Orwell's Animal Farm and hoping it wasn't as eerily prescient as his Big Brother concept. The idea of bumping into a vengeful talking goose made me feel quite ill. We also shared a plate of the famous piggy treats - actually just charcuterie - which Fergie would have tucked into once.

It's a pity Guy wasn't with me, since cassoulet is his favourite dish and one of the restaurant's specialities. I chose rabbit with mustard sauce and tagliatelle, and the linguist opted for roast sturgeon with crackling pork and celery - only because he thought it an extraordinary combination. He pronounced it formidable. We also ordered chips, which were strangely disappointing. There are only three puddings - perhaps they're relying on people being too full - including Gascon Mess, which sounds like a crazy imitator of Eton Mess.

My big complaint was the service - which was like getting through Heathrow. Slow. But for a Pinky and Perky pig-out of a meal, I'd happily eat at Comptoir Gascon again. Honestly.

Who goes there? Early-morning Smithfield Market traders, City gents, bleary-eyed clubbers and food lovers. Jane Birkin and Will Young are regulars.
Why the hype? Recently voted the best chips in London, they're made using Gallic potatoes and cooked in duck fat and topped with fleur de sel instead of sea salt. It's also the bistro-deli offshoot of the Michelin-starred restaurant Club Gascon, owned by Pascal Aussignac and Vincent Labeyrie.
What to order? Homemade black pudding with caramelised apples, followed by cassoulet.
Best table Table ten, for two, next to the window.
Cost £40 for two people without wine.
Restaurant manager Tim Sutton.