Food: If music be the food of love

Despite being both a food-lover and a music fan, I've never been keen on combining the two, a reluctance which can be traced to a traumatic teenage holiday I took at Butlins in 1976. I was innocently enjoying a cabaret supper when a sadistic Redcoat hauled me and my friend on-stage to make up the numbers in a beauty contest. I was eliminated in the first round, but my friend made it to the finals, casting a cloud over the rest of the holiday, and, who knows, maybe the rest of my life. Somewhere, I still have a photo of myself standing bulkily in the line-up, radiating hatred, which I'll show to my therapist if I ever go into therapy.

So it was against my better judgement that I signed up for one of the regular opera nights staged by the Organic Cafe in north London. The restaurant is tucked away down a quaint cobbled mews in Queen's Park. By day, it bustles with tradesmen and artisans, but by night, it's eerily deserted, like an abandoned set from The Avengers. The dining room is snug and stylish, in a homespun, evolved-hippie sort of way, all glowing natural woods, whitewashed walls and noticeboards advertising feng shui counselling and aromatherapy.

My companion, the writer Geoff Dyer, had been too excited at the prospect of a free meal to examine the fine print of my invitation, and it was only when a dinner-jacketed pianist came out and started warming up, that he began to come to his senses. "You don't mean we'll actually have to stop talking and listen to someone singing?" he quavered.

Perhaps he was overheard, because more or less immediately, we were hit up for a pounds 5-per-head cover charge, presumably to ensure that we didn't bolt at the first snatch of bel canto. Following instructions, we had arrived by 7.45pm, and were, therefore, a little resentful to be told that no food would be available until all the other diners had arrived. As the place filled up with expectant gangs of well-heeled locals, we got increasingly ravenous, and some 50 minutes later, with no sign of either starters or singers, we had each gobbled down at least a loaf of garlic-studded focaccia, out of pure panic.

A short menu offered four choices for each course, some of which had been given jokey themed names to fit the occasion. We began to suspect that our laid-back waiter might share our misgivings when Geoff asked him what the "Wagnerian soup" might be. "It's a slightly wanky name for lentil and vegetable soup," was the cheerful reply.

The two singers - a small jolly soprano and a tall jolly baritone - finally appeared, in full evening dress, and launched into a selection of a la carte arias, beginning with an ascending blast up the scale from the soprano which had us eyeing our wine-glasses in alarm. Throwing herself into the performance as though trying to reach the gods at the Coliseum, she acted out a full repertoire of gestures and exaggerated facial expressions. "It's like lap dancing," hissed Geoff when she'd finished. "I feel I should fold up a fiver and pop it into her mouth."

Then the baritone took over for a red-blooded rendition of the famous "Catalogue" aria from Don Giovanni, in which the manservant, Leporello, counts up all the women his master has slept with. With horrifying inevitability, he began to make his way towards me, until he was standing right in front of me, booming "And in Spain - 1,003!", while raking me with lascivious looks. My fellow diners smiled on pityingly. It was Clacton, 1976, all over again.

My anguish was compounded by our waiter's simultaneous arrival with our starters, and I could sense him hovering as I attempted to look suitably receptive to Leporello's advances. "I thought you were about to be number 1,004," whispered Geoff when it was over, and I was shakily recovering my composure over a plateful of restorative chicken livers in Madeira sauce.

Conversation was necessarily limited, so it wasn't possible to get much feedback from Geoff about his Wagnerian soup, but I could tell it was wholesome by its pond-water colour. The portion, though, was not on a Wagnerian scale, and he downed the meagre bowlful in a flurry of frenzied spoonfuls, ignoring the coquettish love duet that the singers were now enacting inches from his elbow.

It was a measure of how unnerved we were that we'd finished our bottle of wine, a thin organic Sauvignon, before the arrival of our main courses, which were accompanied by a selection of show tunes. Geoff's "Verdi Vegetarian Island Stew" was a spicy gumbo of winter vegetables in a satay sauce. It looked a lot like his starter, only without the lentils. "It's not often in restaurants you end up eating food you really could have cooked at home," he mused. "Still, it's bigger than the soup."

My chicken Caruso - we didn't bother asking for an explanation - was pan-fried and served in a sweet-and-sour lemon sauce, and both the chicken and the accompanying spinach had a vividness which signalled their organic provenance. The food was good, we agreed, given the kitchen was turning out 50 covers at once, but not improved by having to swallow "Bess, You Is My Woman Now" at the same time.

When the singers came out for a third session, featuring humorous songs, Geoff began to lose the will to live. "This is the lowest cultural form ever," he moaned during "I'm a Gnu". We rallied briefly at the thought of dessert, but were informed that the warm cinnamon cake wouldn't be ready for three-quarters of an hour, forcing us to settle for floppy slices of lemon tart.

"I would have liked four times more food, and four times less opera," was Geoff's verdict on the evening, as we slunk out past the singers, now settling down to dine themselves. The evening had cost us pounds 80, including the cover charge, enough to cover a week at Butlins back in 1976. Or at least a couple of the therapy sessions I've decided I'm now definitely going to need to recover from the fresh trauma of my night at the opera.

The Organic Cafe, 25 Lonsdale Road, London NW6 (0171-372 1232). Daily 9.30am-4pm, 7-11.30pm. No credit cards. Disabled access. Opera first Wednesday of every month, pianist twice-weekly.

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