Surveying the madly proportioned avatars of her goddess through the haze of their smoke, the effect of the nicotine begins to wear off; it can no longer dull your appetite for proper food.
Then, at the last possible moment, the goddess takes pity and lays on an oversized sandwich.
That's not all, of course. It's amazing the things she can do with two fried eggs and a kebab. What's not to like?
Yet Lucas has had no shortage of detractors over the years. Me included. She has been dismissed as the baddest bad girl of the Young British Artists (otherwise known as the YBAs).
At over sixty, she would probably not claim that description for herself now, but in fact it's decades since she was closely affiliated with the YBAs. She doesn't reside in London either, but a remote house in Suffolk, just round the corner from Maggi Hambling, another fanatical smoker and artist.
Nor is Lucas half as bad an artist as, say, Tracey Emin, with whom she once ran a shop selling rude T-shirts. Her work shares none of Emin's crude technique, cheap provocative stunts (I think here, chiefly, of the notorious unmade bed) or neon lighting.
Well actually, there is a bit of the neon lighting, but how much more sophisticated is Lucas's taste in furniture? Apparently, it began in her childhood when the family visited other people's houses, 'ogling at the furniture'.
Did the whole family ogle at it, or just little Sarah? The article doesn't explain. There are no beds, made or unmade, in her oeuvre. The furniture ranges from sprawling sofas all the way through to plush armchairs and pert little seats.
Like this one, dedicated to smoking, they are often spartan in design:
Even toilet seats form part of her repertoire. She accords the people who sit on them all the solemnity of Rodin's thinker, thus robbing Rodin's thinker of any solemnity he still had.
I suspect Lucas is a great fan of sitting down, partly because it's so much less a) feminine (especially in the 'nuddy' (the jocular way her mother – and mine, incidentally – liked to pronounce 'in the nude'), art historically speaking) than lying down, and b) so much less domineering than standing up. I could be wrong.
Maybe she just prefers seats to settees.
One fact is beyond doubt: anyone who has a yen for decent furniture should make haste to see this exhibition, which includes a long central installation of seats and chairs and a photograph entitled Supersensible, which shows Lucas slumped in an armchair outside a second-hand store.
Could this be the Blackstock Road? I don't know, it's too long since I strayed from the swanky confines of London's West End.
You often get this sensation of incongruity, though: an armchair outdoors, cluttering the pavement. Amid the commotion of passersby, including two bobbies on the beat, where you can almost feel the particulate matter lodged in your eye, borne on a plume of carbon monoxide, Sarah sits at her ease, taking the weight off her feet.
Her creations are usually seated too. One kissing couple is composed of intermingled, merging chairs. The piece is called The Kiss, as if she's having another go at Rodin.
Best of all for me, though, is one called Cross Doris. I challenge anyone not to recognise instantly that Doris is cross, even without a head and face to express her crossness. Doris is the funniest, most convincing image of a huff, or being miffed, you're ever likely to see. It's a comic masterpiece.
If it wasn't guilt by association with the YBAs, why has the label 'bad girl' stuck to this artist so persistently over the years?
Because right from her earliest works, she has been subjected to an obscene misreading. The earliest images here are a case in point.