Swinging City
LESLIE ADRIAN
As soon as I saw the tilt of that head, I knew I could not live happily another day without possessing her. The crowning glory was no cliché but a riot–of chestnut curls, the one visible eyelash languorously long, the nose retrousse, the mouth a Clara Bow rosebud less favoured by modern connoisseurs than in years when my own views were forming, the chin propped by what Browning called a `spirit-small hand' as her youthful but generous figure leant forward 'o'er a great wise book.' She was wearing no clothes. Later I learned that she had recently arrived from Paris. But at that moment she sat exhibiting neither nostalgie nor embarrassment on a corner of Queen Victoria Street, with the Tower of St Mary Aldermary rising on one side and the (in all senses) more functional Bank of London and South America on the other. I pushed open the door of Glad- well's, picture dealers for over two hundred years, and eventually emerged bearing the expertly framed Van Cleef canvas in loving arms.
Some imwdiate celebration seemed called for; and, though it was still well before noon, Sweetings directly opposite was already wel- comingly open. George, who has been behind the counter for them} years (following a fifty- seven year stint by his father-in-law), recom- mended the plaice. the turbot or the sole. But my mood could be matched only by oysters, 'more beautiful than any religion' as Saki rhapsodised, yet denounced for evil by the votaries of more than one—presumably on account of their supposedly aphrodisiac effect rather than because they disconcertingly but involuntarily change their sex each year. To wash them down a waitress nicknamed 'Twiggy,' for obvious reasons, brought a tankard of Black Velvet priced at 8s 6d and worth every penny. This was reputedly the favourite tipple of such oddly assorted persons as Otto von Bismarck and Gerald. du Maurier, and I value their fin de siecle tastes above those of Britain's premier wine snob who labelled the mixture of stout and champagne 'vicious and vulgar.'
Sweetings has the three characteristics which, to my way of thinking. make it most worthwhile to eat and drink in the City. What is on offer is, within its range, absolutely first-class. The establishment is at least old and historic enough to have been recommended and reminisced about by one's grandfather. And, largely because of these two factors, there is a regular clientele, providing something of the atmo- sphere of a small and unofficial club. These are not everyone's desiderata, but the City's amenities are quite various enough_ to satisfy widely differing preferences. If, for example, YOu work near the Monument or wish to reward yourself for climbing its 311 steps, you may seek refreshment either at the Olde Wine Shades or at the Square Rigger. The former, in Martin Lane which slopes down to the river from Cannon Street, is the only City-tavern to have survived the Great Fire, and looks like it; the latter, just around the corner in King William Street, is one of those new 'theme' pubs—in this instance, got up as a ship of the line, mock- authentic down to the last stuffed seagull.
Each of these places is enjoyable after its fashion. In the large, bustling Square Rigger you may eat a square meal on the Mess Deck, take a satisfying snack in the Captain's Cabin, or, buy a pint at the Yardarm Bar. The last pint I bought was knocked flying by a couple of girls beating time to the canned strains of `My Friend Elizabeth'; but they turned out, like the pub itself, to be nice and friendly, insisting despite all protests on making good the loss. At the Olde Wine Shades you will also find a crowd, but much smaller, less noisy, more evidently affluent, and (as at El Vino's of Fleet Street, owned by the same people) tending to suffer ladies coolly. Here the food is confined to delicious sandwiches and the beer comes bottled, but a wide range of ports, sherries, still wines, champagnes and spirits may be pleasur- ably consumed in the presence of Charles Dickens's ghost.
Ghosts of many other literary and historical figures may be encountered on such a City pub crawl as devotees of Iris Murdoch will remem- ber featuring in her first and funniest novel. Try crawling, when you have the stamina but no business to transact, from the Castle in Cow- cross Street, where George N hocked his watch, to Ye Hoop and Grapes across from Petticoat Lane, actually scheduled as an Ancient Monu- ment. Or, if you're after the exotic, seek out the 'Gallipoli in Bishopsgate Churchyard, where at one o'clock the other morning my glasses were provocatively removed by a Turkish belly dancer almost as attractive as that Van Cleet. I now own.
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