Bruno Loubet has a couple of things in common with my dad. The first is a faint resemblance to Rowan Atkinson, the second is an admirable dedication to his vegetable patch. For many years my dad, more Bean than Blackadder, pottered clumsily between greenhouse and garden tending to his principal family of perennials. He brandished his knobbly carrots and oversized marrows with pride, forcing my horrified sister and I into consuming mutated veg any way he could. Beetroots ended up in places they should never be seen: in chilled soups, sandwiches and wrapped in cling-film and slipped into lunchboxes; the curse of the vegetable patch well and truly blighted our early memories of food. Sorry, Dad. But at Grain Store – the restaurant Loubet…