Recently we had some friends round for a Summer lunch – one of those glorious days where conversation flows even more freely than the wine. A lunch that goes from midday until 7pm, having at some point relocated to a nearby park with glasses and bubbly drinks. One of those rare, beautifully sunny London Summer days which is hot but not muggy and where everyone suddenly forgets to be busy aggressive Londoners and becomes chilled out, sun loving people who are somehow kind and accommodating. In other words it was frankly delightful and the last thing I wanted to do was spend the whole time in the kitchen whilst everyone else had fun. On first glance, this meant I’d already made a tactical error – I was serving three courses, all the courses were home-cooked and I was out the night before so not only couldn’t cook then, but there was a distinctly non-zero chance I’d be hungover the day of. The only chance I’d have to do proper in advance cooking was Thursday night for a Saturday lunch. Oh, and one of the courses was fish – the single hardest (read impossible) ingredient to cook in advance – disaster!