MY NIGHT AT NICO'S

Michael Kinsley recounts

the indignities of an expensive evening out

IT RAINED all day and the tube train drivers were on strike, but the evening looked promising: dinner — with a friend's parents visiting from America — at Chez Nico, the much publicised latest creation of the celebrated chef Nico Whatsisname. The reservation was for 7.30. I arrived at 7.25. Nico himself was at the door; recog- nised him from his picture in the paper. The articles had said he is famous for treating his guests badly. I suppose I imagined the sort of jovial badinage ('Hey, asshole, you call that a tip?') engaged in at some gangster-style restaurants in New York. I certainly was not prepared for hos- pitality a la Nico, who glared at me mur- derously before I even opened my mouth.

I said: 'The reservation is in the name of Johnson.'

He said: 'Are you all just going to show up one at a time?'

Taken aback, I had to confess that this was, in fact, our intention, as we were coming from different parts of town.

Screwing up my courage, I asked why this was objectionable. Nico replied: 'We want to get you out of here tonight.'

I pointed out that I was early for an early reservation, and therefore couldn't under- stand the urgency.

He held out his watch and declared: 'You're not early. It's 7.30.' The watch clearly said 7.28. I noted as much. Nico stormed off.

I was shown to the table and even given a drink. By 7.31 three of our party of five had shown up. The fourth appeared around eight, having walked all the way from the City through standstill traffic.

(The restaurant is in Great Portland Street, north of Oxford Circus.) By this time the restaurant had filled and was abustle with waiters delivering menus, bread, butter, little free appetisers — but not to us. Nor could we get another drink. It started to dawn on us that we were being wilfully ignored. At around 8.15, when most of us had been there three quarters of an hour, the host of our party stared down a waiter, said our fifth diner was apparently delayed, and asked to see a menu. The waiter gave a wan smile and wandered off.

Twenty minutes later we tried again. Passing waiters studiously avoided eye contact, but one of them finally summoned a woman who seemed to be the manager. (Apparently she is Mrs Nico Whatsis- name.) She waved aside attempts to address her and said: 'The chef will have to talk to you.'

Soon, Nico reappeared. He said: 'Are you four or are you five?'

Starving, we piteously explained that we had intended to be five but that our fifth appeared to be delayed in the horrendous traffic, and asked if we might order dinner anyway.

'Impossible,' Nico said, and marched away.

You may wonder why, at this point (or a good deal sooner), we didn't march away ourselves. Yes, we were shamefully cowed.

But there were other social dynamics at work to trap us. The guests in the group (including me) felt obliged to pretend we found this all terribly amusing, to avoid hurting the feelings of our host. The host, embarrassed in an intended gesture of generosity, had to pretend likewise. No one could say: 'Screw this. Let's leave' - let alone rise to the occasion by breaking a few plates. Anyway, with no empty taxis on the streets, where could we go?

The fifth diner showed up at nine, full of apologies. Within five seconds of his sitting down — just to make the insult brutally clear — waiters descended from every direction with bread, butter, munchies, menus. Nico charges £34 for two courses, £8 for dessert, £3 for coffee. I never saw the wine list. Service is included, at least in the price. And the food? Unfortunately, it was terrific.