Restaurant bill: gone in a puff of smoke

I'm going to try, throughout this post, to maintain a mien of stern disapproval. I'm going to make great efforts - no matter what - to retain a tone of probity and rectitude but I know I'm going to fail. Why? Because when I read a report in yesterday's Guardian about a couple who had "done a runner" from a string of top notch London restaurants, my crusty, bitter, hardened old heart gave a little leap in my chest. I know, I know. It is not only illegal to leave a restaurant without paying but it directly affects the income of hard-working and talented people. As Henry Dimbleby, co-founder of Leon restaurants, points out on his blog , this kind of " dine and dash " story is not funny. It's low, it's mean, it's immoral and there's no excuse for it. It's also incredibly common. The epic scale of this case - and the apparent premeditation - is something else, but I suppose a few of us might have pulled a version of the stunt in balmier days, perhaps as cash-strapped students, probably through the encouragement of foolish friends and the emboldening power of shite lager. It is alleged that I once did a runner from a restaurant in Chinatown, although if I'm honest it was my sportier "friends" who did the actual "running". I wheezingly brought up the rear and, when inevitably caught by the enraged waiter, quietly paid the entire bill and a substantial tip with a credit card I knew my parents would pay off. Not big, not clever, and thoroughly obnoxious, I admit. I know I will be rightly flayed in the comments for this, but now one half of the couple has been arrested , I can say that while I don't condone their behaviour, I can't help admiring their elan. According to the reports, they chose some splendid joints to hit: the magnificent L'Autre Pied , the Pearl restaurant, The Glasshouse in Kew. They didn't steal coats, wallets or cash from the till, instead they ordered and enjoyed a meal and wine they didn't intend to pay for. They clearly had expensive tastes and either no money or a yen for a certain cheeky excitement, and judging by the picture above of the laughing twosome, I'd guess at the latter. At least this wasn't some shrivelled pair of joyless sour-faced restaurant collectors. I grew up on a diet of Au Bout de Souffle , Betty Blue and Badlands and - while not condoning murder, self-harm or a killing spree across the midwest - it's left me with a heightened filmic sense of romance. I want to believe these two chose their marks with discernment. We know that they booked under the name of "Lupin" (tantalisingly referencing that gentleman burglar Arsene Lupin ), I imagine they enjoyed every mouthful of a sumptuous meal (bar the desserts) and then ran, laughing hysterically through the rain slicked streets of London to a poor but somehow brilliantly designed flat where they celebrated the sheer, unbridled sensual joy of their evening of stolen luxury. Why do I, such a hardened cynic want to believe this? Because that's how much fun eating out should be - but mostly because young couples I know can easily afford that meal, will eat it in miserable and analytic silence and afterwards, when they get home, they'll get out their laptops and blog about it.