The first thing I did when I woke up on the day on which I was to have lunch at The Fat Duck was to weigh myself. Nothing so remarkable in that. It is the first thing I do every morning. What was remarkable was that I turned out to be twelve stone one.

I had not weighed so little since I was at school. Thirteen stone was my fighting weight (had anybody wanted to fight me) for years. But at the end of last November, nosing 13-and-a-half, and noticing that I was looking a little wobbly round the middle, I bought a set of digital scales and stopped eating.

For a week I consumed nothing but water. I lost eight pounds. When I began eating again I allowed myself only fruit, fibrous vegetables, fish and wine. I was starving, but not as starving as I had been in the week I ate nothing. And at least I was pissed.

It was not easy. I live to eat. Apart from reading, writing, cricket, my girlfriend, my family and half a dozen losers I met at university and haven't managed to shake off, food is the only thing I care about. But eating does not have to be about quantity and repetition. It can be about reflection, moderation, novelty and precision, as will be properly demonstrated in a moment.

After hovering for a few days on twelve-two, I awoke on Fat Duck Morning, peed, weighed myself, cursed, peed (grimly) again and weighed myself once more. Twelve-one. I ran up and down the stairs singing (to the tune of "here we go"): "Twelve stone one, twelve stone one, twelve stone one", and then weighed myself again to see if I'd burned up enough calories doing that to have dropped to twelve flat. I hadn't. But twelve-one was good enough.

God, I was hungry. Fortunately, the 70-day fast was to be broken as beautifully as a man in my position could hope for. Because in less than two hours I was due at the restaurant where Heston Blumenthal has been thrilling the pants off diners and critics since the late Nineties, but where, by the end of 2003, he had received neither a third Michelin star nor a visit from me. And then, in January 2004, he scored both. What a glorious double for the young lad.

I'm not going to talk too much about the food. I don't want to spoil the surprises. For Blumenthal is as much a conjuror as a cook. If there were a Chef 's Magic Circle then Blumenthal would be the Grand Vizier (UK), and critics would have their hands cut off for revealing his secrets. But I will tell you one or two superficial things so you can decide whether you want to go.

The entrance is a small wooden door on a main road with a little strip notice above it informing you that Heston Blumenthal has a licence to sell beer, wine, and spirits. When you walk in you will think you have accidentally come in the back.

The unvarnished exposed beams, aquamarine carpet, tiny kitchen and staff in shirtsleeves make the place look like a Home-Counties pub that has been converted into a Pizza Express, rather than what it truly is: a Home-Counties pub that has been converted into the most exciting restaurant in Britain.

Uniquely, for so starred an establishment, they only point you towards the loo, rather than walking you there and helping you off with your trousers. And when you get there, there is only one bog-bowl, and it's plastic. Indicating, I like to think, that this place is about more than fancy crockery.

I realised it was going to be futile to describe the food when I was wondering what to say about the second course (of around 20). It was two squares of colour, one orange, one purple, each the size of a thick postage stamp. "Orange jelly and beetroot jelly, " said the waiter cheerfully. "We recommend you begin with the orange." So I did. I put it in my mouth. I chewed once, I stopped. I looked up. And then I laughed like a drain.

But I can't tell you why, because it will ruin the joke if you ever go. But let me tell you that when I finished laughing I thought to myself: "Very funny, sunshine, but take the mickey out of me one more time and I'm coming in there with a broken bottle... " and then I remembered that I was currently 13 pounds under my fighting weight and thought better of it.

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