THE GOOD LIFE Pamela VANDYKE PRICE
My father was a patient, gentle, easy-going man. Yet he always got non-existent or appalling service in restaurants and sometime we would wait forty-five minutes for the bill. My husband — grandson of an hotelier — and the man who taught me wine were far more demanding, impatient and gastronomically , 'difficult.' But the haughtiest head waiters paraded hapOilSr before them, the lifting of their eyebrows would attract attention and I never remember either of them receiving other than a welcome, whether in familiar or strange eating-places, although both were perfectly capable of sending dishes and bottles back, correcting service and bills and not necessarily tipping more than moderately.
I had to do a stint as a wine waiter before I realized why some people get good service, and others never. But, even if it isn't wholly true that the way to a woman's heart is through the door of a good restaurant, in these business-fraught days it can be an enormous asset to get the restaurant where it belongs — which is at your service.
My father was shy. So he never spoke directly to the waiter, but talked downwards to his plate in the stiff upper lip mumble of the well-bred British. It's hard enough for a native to hear what someone like this is saying; it's almost
impossible for the foreigner with a limited grasp of our language. Then there was a man who used to take me out who was obviously detested by the staff, although he was so bonhomous that he treated them like brothers. I came to loathe such customers who would crack long-winded jokes, chat and asic questions when I was longing to rush on with the order. The two men in my life who taught me good customer conduct were both ex-Guards. They gave their orders directly to the staff, concisely, without merry jests and wordy witticisms, in tones that could be heard and in phrases simple to understand — with a smile.
They taught me, too, that any complaint should best be made in person to the manager (he's responsible for his staff, they may really not know what's wrong), if the situation can immediately be put right. If it can't, then complain afterwards in writing, politely, and, if possible, constructively. Restaurants will accept your saying that you consider there should be cloth not paper napkins in a restaurant of the moderate to expensive type, and that you would prefer to have rolls or chunks of a French loaf rather than presliced steam baked unbread, but if you simply grumble that you didn't enjoy your meal, they'll put your letter in the wastepaper basket.
Only once have I had difficulty in getting the bill. After three or four minutes I got up and walked out, leaving my card with a request for it to be sent on to me. Torrents of apologies at the door. I made• them send the bill — and I didn't add any percentage to my cheque when I paid it. No ill-feeling on either side. But I bet they don't do that often now.
There are two new restaurants in London which are refreshingly elegant and sincere. Sometimes, old square that I am, I do tire of the trendy, casual and deafening. The Capital Hotel, Basil Street, SW2 (5895171) has a small but comfortable diningroom, a short but imaginative menu, a young but classically trained chef — and only a 75 per cent mark-up on the excellent wines on their list. Praise so soon is a risk, but I think the Capital may Well come into the class of choice, serious eating places, such as the Connaught, the Stafford and the Belfry Club. Off Avery Row, which runs between Brook Street and GrosVenor Street, the No. 10 Lancashire Court (493-5545) is also small and quietly comfortable. The menu has some classic favourites, and is enhanced by Cyprus and Greek starters and sweets, presented in what one might describe as elegant town style — merry peasantry is, after all, out of place in the metropolis.
Among praise for old favourites — for isn't it pleasanter to kiss than to kick? even I find vituperation pall and it can't be good for the digestion — I draw attention
to the Royal Garden's good idea of illustrating their cocktail list with lavish colour, and descriptions. It's always fun to have a new drink on an occasion,' and even if you only have a single 'Grasshopper' in a summer, would you have tried it if you hadn't known what it was? (Creme de menthe, creme de cacao and fresh cream I!) Upstairs, in Basil Street, is a snack bar plus a sandwich bar plus a low-priced restaurant, offering hot dishes and salads, in bright, light surroundings. They are charming to the old, the infirm, the tot set and the simply greedy, and recently I found their boiled beef — not usually a favourite of mine — as good as anything in far lusher nosh bars. To show that I occasionally move about, I will say that, at a weekend at the Marine Hotel, Troon, I had a lobster thermidor better than any I have had in my life. True, the local baby lobsters are exceptional — but that young chef achieved a sauce that earned awed appreciation even from visiting Frenchmen. It almost tempted me to take up golf so as to risk sampling long sessions of the establishment's cooking.
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