RESTAURANTS
Deborah Ross
FIRST off, I think you should know that my preoccupation with Nigella Lawson has now shifted into full-blown obsessional mode. Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she sophis- ticated? Isn't she a total domestic goddess? Isn't she the new Marie Antoinette? What, no more bread at Sainsbury's? Well, let them have the number of that darling little patisserie in Notting Hill. I want to be her. I want to come home in the evenings and say, `I've had a bloody awful day at work. I haven't had time to get anything in. I'm pooped. So, tonight, it's just going to have to be onion tart with bitter leaves, roast monkfish, pumpkin purée and mixed mush- rooms, then almond and orange-blossom cake with red fruit. And if you don't like it, you can sodding well lump it.'
The only drawback, as far as I can see, is that if I were to become the next Nigella, I'd have to change my own name to the femi- nised — ella-ised — version of my father's name. I wouldn't mind, but my dad's name is Salman. Only kidding. It's Bonj. Got you again, didn't I? You lot are so easy to kid it's almost not worth bothering. OK, it's Denis. Denis? Does that mean I'd have to be Denise? Nah. I couldn't be a Denise. I'm not common. I've got a cleaner. I have fresh fruit in the house even when no one is poorly. I could be Denisella. Yes. That has a nice ring to it, I think. How to Eat by Denisella Ross. That would make it into the bestseller lists. It would be full of useful tips, too, like: 'Just open your gob and shove it in. Easy-peasy pudding and (Blakean fish) pie.' Blakean? Yes, because, the colour of this 'saffron- infused' dish reminds Nigella of 'Blakean sunsets'. I would describe my own fish pie as more Plathian. Depressing. Makes you want to stick your head in the oven alongside it.
Now, where is this taking us? Absolutely nowhere, of course. Need you ask? Although, that said, it actually does take me on quite nicely to my other current obses- sion, who is, as you already know, Jamie Oliver. Isn't he lovely? Isn't he talented? Isn't he divine? I can imagine that Jamie and Nigella would make a very nice couple. Except that they are both so bee-stung, they'd probably ricochet quite dangerously off each other. They would, I think, have to do all their necking in some kind of bouncy castle, just to avoid injury, and should still, perhaps, have paramedics on standby, just in case. I don't want to be Jamie as such, but I wouldn't half mind his spiral staircase. Every time I go down our dismally straight, boring, Victorian staircase, I give the banis- ters a good shove with my shoulders, in the hope that one day they will give way and go more spirally. Alas, they have yet to con- cede a millimetre. Bloody Victorians! When they wanted something straight, they made sure it stayed straight.
Anyway I was, of course, very excited when I heard Jamie now has a restaurant in London. This is the Restaurant at Monte's on Sloane Street, a private club with adja- cent cigar store open to the public only for lunch on weekdays. There are big signs in Monte's windows announcing: 'Jamie is here.' Where, where, where? Let me at him. Let me just have a touch of the seat of his scooter, at least. But, no, Jamie isn't here, actually. Jamie isn't the chef proper, even. Jamie is 'consultant chef' alongside his for- mer River Café colleague Ben O'Donoghue, who is head chef. I feel a bit short-changed, I must say. Still, no matter. I'm sure the food is going to be lovely-jubbly-pukka.
I'm a little early, so I go up to the bar, which is above the restaurant and is done out very smartly, ocean-liner style, and seems to be full of those brilliant Ladies Who Lunch, Monte's being just down the road from Har- vey Nicks. I settle in a nice leather chair to wait for my dining companion, who is actual- ly my immediate boss at the Independent where I have a small, part-time, severely underpaid job doing interviews. Some people do not like my interviews, I know. They say I'm self-obsessed. Private Eye once even did a whole thing about me. I was very upset, of course. I was even minded to write to them: `Dear Sirs, I am not an egomaniac. Mean- while, don't you think you could have made my photograph a bit bigger?' My immediate boss, whose influence on my salary should not be underestimated, is a very clever and handsome and charming man, who might even be more handsome than my first use of handsome even hinted at. Plus, great things are about to happen at the Independent, including. . . . Nah. Why do Stephen Glover's job? Does he ever do mine? No. And he couldn't, anyway. Did he train for years at the LSC? I mean, where was he while I was trying to finish my dissertation on `How the Courgette Became the Zucchini in the New World'? Down the pub, like as not.
Hang on, here comes my boss, striding though the bar. And, do you know, he just gets more handsome every time I see him! I don't know how he does it. We go straight into the restaurant — a 70-seater with wood-panelled walls and leather window frames overlooking Sloane Street — to eat. This has nothing to do with him not want- ing to waste time with the likes of me. He has to get back to the paper. He is very hard-working as well as shockingly handsome. I set the conversational tone quite early on. I tell him how rubbish I am with money. How I must have more of it. How I even, recently, almost lost our house because of a video of Hansel and Gretel which I forgot to take back to Blockbusters for four years. In the end, repossession was only avoided when I agreed to pay for the cost of the video (long since lost), Block- busters' costs, court costs and bailiff costs. The bill came to £800. I wouldn't have minded, but it was a crap animation and my son thought it rubbish. My boss says he's the same. He's rubbish with money, too. We agree that we hate people who sub- scribe to Which? and do vulgar things like compare prices. He says he will think about my pay rise. He then suggests that it would help my cause a lot if I got up earlier and actually did some work for a change.
To the menu, which isn't bad value — a two-course meal for £16, or three for £22. We go for the £22 job. I order fritto misto of Scottish girolles to start because I haven't a clue what it might be. And I'm still not sure. All I can say is that it was very, very violently deep-fried, and may even be the upmarket equivalent of a deep-fried Mars Bar except that whatever was within the great crusts of batter was much more carpety and green. My boss chose the carpaccio of organic, herb-encrusted beef fillet which came with baby beets and olive oil. 'Disappointingly greasy,' he said. Next, it was grilled fresh Scottish scallops for me and pan-roasted rack of lamb for him. Nice, but again both dishes seemed over-oily. Has Jamie spent so much time sliding down spiral staircases that his food has become all slidy too? Perhaps. And pudding? I was encouraged to have the tiramisu, 'the best in town'. Usually, I don't take advice from waiters, who are too unin- telligent to get better jobs, but I do have a soft spot for tiramisu. It was delicious. The final bill came to £90. Monte's is fine, although I wouldn't say it was Tab' fine. My boss is lovely. And very handsome. Did I mention that?
The Restaurant at Monte's, 164 Sloane Street, London SW1; tel: 020 7245 0892.
How To Eat by Denisella Ross will shortly be available from all rubbish bookshops everywhere. Cost: £789. Steep, I know, but if you have only one good idea in your life you might as well make it pay.
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