It was at Vincent. A small restaurant off the north-east corner of Hyde Park, Sydney. Vincent, named after the artist, not the character from Pulp Fiction, is a well-regarded establishment, casual rather than formal. The limited menu changed daily with the exception of one entree: the nudies: a vegetarian dumpling in a garlicky broth, more flavoursome than that description would suggest.

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My friend Nicole had visited Vincent the previous week and knowing that we had very similar tastes suggested we try it. Once seated in the cosy, almost familial venue, as usual we ordered the same dishes. The nudies on Nicole’s recommendation, a main of whiting and Brussel sprouts, and a cheese selection. Nicole, being French and therefore assuming it is her genetic entitlement, chose the wine.

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It was after the nudies (every bit as delicious as I had been told), when Nicole returned from the ladies’ room, that the truly memorable part of the dinner began to unfold. Before the whiting was served, she said “they have this lovely cologne in the women’s bathroom. Do you like it?” and offered me the inside of her wrist. “Yeah. Nice” I reflexively replied. Then three seconds later, a little more thoughtfully, “let me smell that again.” Wrist across the table, my response after a second sampling “that smell is familiar”.

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The whiting arrived. A whole fish each in a delicate sauce with side dishes of potato gratin and beans. After the first bite I requested another sniff. And shortly after, another, then a fifth, my response grew in enthusiasm after every venture.

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“I recognise that”, “that’s someone I know”, “I can’t place who, but that is someone’s smell”.

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Then just after turning the whiting over to start on its port side, it hit me. “It’s my mother” I triumphantly declared. Nicole is about 30 years younger than my recently deceased mother and is a most attractive woman (she could be mistaken for Gal Gadot the actress who plays Wonder Woman), so I was not claiming she in any way resembled my mum (think Maggie Smith), that would have been creepy under the circumstances. It was just that the inside of her right wrist smelt identical to my late mother.

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I asked the puzzled Nicole if she knew the name of the cologne. “Nothing but soap and water in the gents”. “The bottle had a blue and gold label and four seven one one on it” she replied.

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“Four seven eleven” I corrected. And now it all became clear. I explained to Nicole that 4711 was a cheap and popular cologne and that as a child I would buy this brand as my default Christmas/birthday/Mothers’ Day gift for my mum. She continued to use 4711 for the rest of her life.

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Postscript: Thoughtfully, I received a postcard from Nicole shortly after starting my term in prison. She had doused the card in 4711 after writing on it.