ands a pink stucco building with roses round the gate. It was called Rossini when it opened three years ago, and waiters in black ties and gloves brought miniature masterpieces on metal plates. But then, two years ago, it was suddenly desolate, announcing an unlikely "Tancat Per Vacances" on the door in high summer. And this summer the long, long vacances continue. The tables are still laid as they were in 2000, cutlery and tulip-stemmed glasses beneath a gathering of dust. It is as though a weapon of chemical mass destruction had exploded one night over the foie gras. It is the Marie Celeste with sauce Marie Rose. It is the tragedy - and cycle - of restaurant life: which is life itself.