Lunch dates

Lunching with Boswell

Alice Thomson

Bruce is a man of 18-century habits. He lives alone in St James's in a garret at the Travellers' Club, eats cold grouse for breakfast, has his first glass of claret at noon, his second dozen oysters at Wiltons by 2 p.m. and is on to his third bottle at the Beefsteak for tea. This magazine's political editor is the Boswell of our age (only because there are already too many John- sons at The Spectator). Mornings are spent penning (literally) his columns in the library of the magazine's Regency town house in Bloomsbury. By the afternoon, when he is firing on all preju- dices, he dictates his sermons to the Daily Mail. Holidays are taken in his beloved Scotland gralloching stags (stalking being his once-yearly exercise). And what of the diaries? 'I'm too emotional to write at night.'

Bruce's idea of heaven would be lunch at Marco Pierre White's Oak Room, with those other Conservative heavyweights Nicholas Soames and Lord Cranborne. With true Tory taste, the others might pine for shepherd's pie and prunes in custard, but Bruce hasn't reached his magnificent proportions eating school food. He collects Michelin stars as assiduously as he debunks Cool Britannia's ministers. His idea of hell isn't Polly Toynbee throwing wine over him for singing 'Long Live Pinochet' at the Marxism Today party; a little light conflict aids this Shetlander's digestion. He is more likely to be offended by a woman who eats fruit salad for breakfast, Caesar salad for lunch and risotto for dinner — like me, for instance. So when Bruce suggested we go to lunch together I warned him he might not enjoy it. Gordon Ramsay's waiting list for his new Chelsea restaurant has quadrupled since he ejected the reviewer A.A. Gill, declaring he'd prefer to wash up for a Chilean dicta- tor. But Bruce's discerning appetite is leg- endary, and we were fitted in the next day.

Arriving at noon, I found the ample columnist already perched on a small, beige, suede seat sipping a glass of cham- pagne. I warned him that there were only two rules. The bill couldn't come to more than £150 and we had to finish by 2.45 so that I could return to work. Bruce was alarmingly meek. 'No problem,' he said. 'I'm on the Hay diet so I can't eat very much anyway.' The waiter arrived with the rolls and he took two, smearing them with butter. 'But Bruce you're not supposed to mix carbohydrate and fat.' He paused momentarily. 'I'll start again tomorrow.' The three-course set menu was disdained. 'You'll need a bit more than that to feed you up,' he insisted. So we studied the a la carte with its pig's trotters and ham knuck- les, while he sipped his second glass of champagne.

`Ah pigeon', he said. `Yuk, pigeon,' I replied. 'I can't stand those flying rats that spoil my runs in Hyde Park.' Bruce perse- vered while tucking his napkin into his

FOOD AND WINE sponsored by Fortnum & Mason

Prince of Wales suit. 'A wood pigeon is a very pretty bird. If it's hung well it's far superior to a pheasant.'

The cherubic young sommelier arrived, and Bruce was now shuffling three menus. 'I get migraines if I drink red wine,' I explained. 'I've got rid of wench- es for less than that,' Bruce groaned. We decided to share a white bordeaux, Lay- ille-Haut-Brion 1983 Pessac, and Bruce was persuaded to drink his red wine by the single bottle, starting with a St Chini- an 1993.

A delicate pumpkin soup with girolles and parmesan arrived in a coffee cup. Bruce consumed it in a mouthful and licked his lips, looking enviously at mine. My first starter was tartare of sea scallops With crème fraiche and a liberal layer of caviar. I fed Bruce a mouthful. It was sub- lime. His, a frothing cappuccino of haricots blancs with sautéed girolles and grated truffle, was even better.

It wasn't until the mediocre red mullet With an uninspired caviar aubergine that we had ordered from the set menu that I noticed the other guests. They certainly weren't the 'bloated plutocrats' that A.A. Gill had described. Almost every table was filled by a soignée, bouclé-suited woman and an arty, black-polo necked man. Rather a lot of 40th wedding anniver- saries,' Bruce remarked. 'I think they're all having affairs,' I explained, then realised that everyone assumed the same of us. The bordeaux, now decanted, was sniffed and swilled by Bruce and me at reg- ular intervals. It developed with the con- versation, starting as a rather mismatched The next applicant looks promising — he already an hour late.' set of flavours before settling down.

Bruce's pigeon was a triumph, a perfect red breast, though not bloody enough for the Brute. He fed me a Brussels sprout stuffed with foie gras. It was exquisite. My ravioli of lobster in lobster bisque looked rather like a lamb's brain, inside it was filled with pink flesh and coriander. Another classic. When Bruce saw I'd ordered a green salad his smile was laced with irony, as if to say, 'You would, wouldn't you.'

The fromagier refused to apologise that the cheeses were all French, explaining that the English didn't understand about consistency. My cheeses, starting with Reblochon and ending with Tarnaise, were disappointingly bland, or slightly too sweaty. 'They've given you a girlie selec- tion,' said Bruce, commiserating. His Roquefort was more winsome. We decided that they should go to Neal's Yard for a mature cheddar and a Devon goat's cheese.

British puddings are for gourmands rather than gourmets. Chefs tend to be at their least inspired when required to deal with the national devotion to sticky desserts. Bruce, however, was having noth- ing to do with such theological objections. He ordered the lemon platter, but looked crestfallen every time he saw plates of chocolate pudding passing the table. His miniature soufflé was cruel in its brevity. The lemon tart was too sweet, but the sor- bet was piquant, and it was all presented very prettily.

In fact the whole restaurant was rather feminine for a chef who prides himself on being an ex-Glasgow Rangers lad. There were posies of violets at the tables and miniature boxes of pastel macaroons, no doubt attended to by the suave Jean- Claude who presides over the tables.

Finally we were presented with a plate of petits fours. Two white chocolates filled with vanilla ice cream, two dark chocolates filled with desiccated orange, two violet creams and two armagnac truffles — Bruce managed them all, washed down with a double espresso.

When we finally asked for our coats, Mr Ramsay was discussing the evening menu at the bar and the other guests had long since left hand in hand. The bill arrived at 4.10, and came to £304. Bruce smiled, tri- umphant, and began planning his dinner.

Gordon Ramsay: 68 Royal Hospital Road, London SW3; teL 0171 352 4441.