S o, off to town to buy something classy (hopefully) to
wear to both my sister's wedding in a few weeks' time and my father's 80th birthday party. I am very much of the view that you should never, ever accept invites that require new outfits, but I'm not quite sure how to duck out of these. I think that if I invent a family funeral, as I would do in normal circumstances, they might be on to me. My father, by the way, does not want gifts. Instead, you may send cheques made out to me, c/o The Spectator, which I will spend unwisely on digital cameras that I can't be bothered ever to use as well as lots of other nonsense.
Anrvay, shopping for clothes is always something of a trial, mostly as I have no interest in them and absolutely no understanding of fashion. Frankly, I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch. And if yesterday's knickers don't drop out of a trouser leg while I'm walking down the street, that is a bonus. (If yesterday's knickers and yesterday's socks do not drop out of my trouser leg while walking down the street, that is a double bonus.) I cannot appreciate any of the telling subtleties that are said to go on. I cannot tell an amusing seam from an unamusing one, a witty pleat from one that's a dinner-party bore, an outfit that 'comes together' from one that has declared a bloody, ugly civil war on itself. I'm particularly mystified by those wonderful lifestyle ninnies who go on and on about going through your wardrobe and putting things you haven't worn for one season 'on probation' (for crimes against hemlines?), and bagging up those you haven't worn for two and dispatching them instantly to Sue Ryder. (That Sue. She must have a new outfit for every minute of the day.) Honestly, I'm so prepared to look ridiculous year after year after year that if I do not wear something for one season, or two, or seven, or eleven, it's only because I've probably lost trace of it down at the bottom of the laundry basket. The bottom of our laundry basket is a dark, scary, largely unexplored place. You'd have to have a jolly good reason to go down there. It's the sort of place that would, I think, make even Ranulph Fiennes flinch. Actually, I do have a rummage every ten years or so, and it can prove quite a rewarding experience. I think last time I found one A–Z, two rolls of film, about .L5 in loose change and a pocket Spanish dictionary, as well aS several clothing items that had been down there for so many seasons that they were decidedly fashionable again. Hey, that's clever wardrobe management for you!
Where were we? Oh yes, off to town with my friend Carrie, who has appointed herself my style adviser, and who will not let me go to the big Top Shop at Oxford Circus, even though I beg. It's not that I like Top Shop especially; it's just that it's so cheap and I always have quite a lot of fun sharply elbowing 11-year-old girls out of the way. She, however, says I cannot go to Top Shop because 1) I am too old; 2) I must learn to think 'quality'; 3) the 11-year-olds are starting to fight back. Instead, we go to New Bond Street, where the grown-up shops selling grown-up clothes at grown-up prices are. New Bond Street. Terrifying or what? Chanel, Gucci, Prada, Alexander McQueen, Donna Karan . the sort of places where one key-fob costs more than several outfits from Top Shop plus 27 from Mark One. For me, going upmarket tends to be Next. Carrie, though, has suggested Nicole Farhi, on the grounds that her stuff is 'beautifully cut', whatever that means. And as Nicole's flagship store also has a restaurant, that's where we are going for lunch.
Into the store, which is light and bright and expensive, and where everything is 'beautifully cut', I guess. I am quite taken by a silk skirt with matching top but am worried about the 'specialist clean' label, as I do not know any specialists who clean, only a heart specialist who, as far as I know, does not do any cleaning on the side. Down into the basement restaurant for lunch. The restaurant is super-stylish, I suppose. Quite minimal with a stainless-steel bar and big white napkins and long mirror in front of which. I can't help noticing, the rather good-looking waiting staff are fond of admiring themselves. A lady in a 'beautifully cut' black suit takes my coat, the one Carrie later kindly describes as 'looking like a child's sleeping-bag'. I say to the lady, 'Hey, don't sell my coat by mistake!' She smiles pityingly. I add, 'OK,
sell it, and we'll split the money 50150.' She smiles even more pityingly. Ho-hum.
Through the restaurant, which is full of monied shoppers, to our table, where we are offered bread. We both choose focaccia which, in fact, is very un-ladies-who-lunch focaccia as it oozes oil. I start with Nicole's hors d'oeuvre of marinated beetroot, artichokes and leek vinaigrette (£8.50), which is, at best, disappointing and, at worst, hilariously awful. The beetroot is so malt-vinegared that it brings tears to my eyes. It may well be Haywards. Nicole, I'm sure your clothes are lovely, but your beetroot stinks. The artichokes appear to have been similarly pickled and, as for the leek vinaigrette, it looks, I'm afraid, like someone has been sick on it. Chopped egg is never a good idea in a dressing, no matter how 'beautifully cut' it might be. Carrie has the roasted salmon, cucumber and almond salad with pomegranate syrup dressing (£10.50), which is not only 'wet' and 'tasteless, no salt even', but comes on a huge mound of rocket. Rocket. I know, I know: deeply fashionable and all that, but surely everyone is bored to death of rocket by now? Truly, if I know one thing, it's that rocket has gone on for one season too long.
Next, I have the pan-fried, herb-stuffed red snapper with parsley, artichoke and black olive salad (£18.95). The snapper actually comes as fillets, served skin-side up with some kind of hollandaise on top. Unthinkingly, I flip the fish to skin-side down, as one does, which means that now, of course, I have the sauce underneath. Useless. And nothing tastes of very much, either. Carrie has grilled monkfish with asparagus, baby leeks and salsa verde (£19.50), which she describes as 'tediously bland'. We share a slice of vanilla cheesecake with kirsch-soaked cherries for pudding (£7), which is perfectly acceptable but not especially generous on the cherry front — three.
We decide that Nicole's is a very workaday, average establishment, although undoubtedly popular. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's for the sort of person who isn't really in it for the food, just the shopping before and after. That's excitement enough. Carrie and I decide to give up on New Bond Street and take a taxi to Covent Garden instead, where I buy a really groovy pair of new trainers. Suitable for weddings and birthdays? Well, I just looked that up in the Deborah Ross Style Guide (Ebury, £109, but beautifully cut). And the answer? You bet!
Nicole's, 158 New Bond Street, London Wl; tel.' 020 7499 8408.
Previous page
