I t is half-term and so our pre-teen son must be
kept amused because, on the whole, boys of this age are like Labradors: unless you give them some kind of run every day they will eat the furniture. In fact, come to think of it, they are actually worse than Labradors because, unless you give them some kind of run every day, they will not only eat the furniture but they will also rugby-tackle you at every opportunity, even when you are on the toilet. It’s not clever, it’s not funny, and it is most undignified. So, in our efforts to entertain him we decide, one evening, to take him, fittingly enough, to the dogs at Walthamstow Stadium, where we have been told that there is also a pretty good restaurant.
Off we go, then, to Walthamstow, which turns out to be in E4. Mostly, in London, I tend to feel safest in the Ns — and safest of all in the NWs — and the nearer we get to E4 the more the front doors have iron grilles on them. It’s a scary place, E4. But you do get to circumnavigate the Crooked Billet roundabout, which is quite exciting, because you always hear of the Crooked Billet roundabout on traffic reports — ‘major problems today at Crooked Billet’ — and now I know it actually exists. One day I would like to see Gypsy Corner. Gypsy Corner is always on traffic bulletins. I think, though, that if I want to see Gypsy Corner I should do so soonish in case Mr Howard comes to power and has it taken away. Mr Howard has promised to come down hard on gypsies, and I guess if he is going to come down hard on gypsies he is going to have to come down hard on their corners. The thing about gypsies is that they will put their corners down anywhere, without a thought for local residents or planning requirements. They can be very selfish, as well as smelly and not like us. They’re quite like immigrants in that respect.
At last we reach the stadium, which is truly wonderful, a masterpiece of neon-lit, 1930s Art Deco architecture. Fab. In we go, through the turnstile, but decide to hang about a bit to soak up the atmosphere before going up to the restaurant. Well, if horse racing is the sport of kings, then greyhound racing appears to be the sport of old boys with roll-ups stuck to their lower lips and the Asda-goers who would otherwise be in Asda slapping their children. Of course, abuse also goes on in Waitrose but, it being a more middle-class establishment, the cruelty tends to be less physical and more mental. ‘Oscar, behave yourself, or I’ll make you take up the harp and write 78 thank-you letters a day for the rest of your life!’ There are also groups of chaved-up Essexy people in Burberry and diamante here. This is, in fact, just the sort of place you expect to meet Vinnie Jones. Actually, I did meet Vinnie Jones once. He was reading a boat magazine. ‘Buying a boat, Vinnie?’ I asked in my pathetically friendly way. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I want an ’orse and boat.’ ‘A horse and boat?’ I queried. ‘Like one of those oldfashioned barge things?’ At this, he marched off. It was only a few days later that I realised he was trying to say ‘an awesome boat’. I’m lucky he didn’t bite my nose off. But, that said, the whole misunderstanding could so easily have been avoided if only he’d spoken properly. My partner says my problem is that I am just too middle-class. I say to him that if he’s so proud of being bloody working-class, why can’t he put a lock on the toilet door? He says just because he’s working-class it doesn’t mean he is suited to manual labour of the lock-fitting variety. I say, ‘Oh, go away. I’ve got my violin practice to do.’ Time to eat, which means the Paddock Grill, described in the stadium’s bumf as ‘the most prestigious restaurant in greyhound racing’ which makes you think, bloody hell, what do they have to put up with elsewhere? I can’t remember, now, who told us it was a decent restaurant but they were obviously having a bit of a laugh. Time, for a start, has stopped in 1972. The music is Seventies disco. The middle-aged waitresses have possibly been imported from those old seaside hotels where fruit juice is still served as a starter and, just so as you know it’s a dish rather than a beverage, is placed emphatically in the centre of your place mat. The menu? OK, what would you expect from a restaurant where time stopped in 1972? Prawn cocktail? Tick. Avocado with prawns? Tick. Scampi? Tick. Steak? Tick. Peach Melba, chocolate fudge cake, lemon sorbet served in a scooped-out lemon? Tick, tick, tick. However, while time might have stopped in 1972, the prices certainly haven’t. The scampi, for example, is 15 outrageous quid!
We order and watch the dogs, because if there is one thing the Paddock Grill does have, it’s a wonderful view of the track, and of course I win nothing. I’ve never won anything in my life. I’ve even stopped betting on the Grand National because I know that whatever horse I bet on will stumble and have to be shot, so it just doesn’t seem fair on the horse. Of course, our son cleans up. He has always been marvellously lucky, and I would probably love him quite a lot if he didn’t do that toilet thing.
Ah, here is the food. My starter of Mediterranean prawns is, in some ways, better than expected. The prawns are quite plump and fresh and juicy, but I could have done without the salad garnish of a bit of lettuce, ring of pepper and scattering of cress. My partner says his avocado with prawns would be OK if it weren’t quite so drowned in the vivid coral-pink Marie Rose sauce. I’ve no idea who Marie Rose is, but I still think she ought to be ashamed of herself. My son has whitebait which he doesn’t eat because he is too busy winning on the dogs. Next, I have the grilled plaice (£9.50) because how can you go wrong with a nice bit of grilled plaice? — unless it comes soaked in fat and is sodden and as tasteless as an old bit of washcloth, which it is. I asked for a salad with it at an extra £2. The salad is a beefed-up version of the garnish, with two rings of pepper instead of the one. My partner says his fillet steak, at an astonishing £17, is overcooked and leathery, and as for the button mushrooms (£2) they are so rubbery that every time he attempts to spear one with a fork it bounces to the other end of the plate. We decide to skip pudding. I guess it’s one thing to do Seventies food with irony and quite another to do it without. The final bill, with one bottle of wine, comes to £95. I’m not saying that going to the dogs isn’t fun. It is. But it’s probably best to eat first.
Paddock Grill, Walthamstow Stadium, Chingford Road, E4. 020 8498 3333.
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