SO, to the Admiralty restaurant, Oliver Peyton's latest eatery, situated
in historic Somerset House — Smart enough for you? Far enough from Crouch End for you? — for our friend Louise's 40th birthday dinner. This is quite a swish place, I know, but then Louise and her husband Stuart are quite swish people. God knows what they see in us. And God knows what they see in me, particularly. Apart from my great personality, that is. And the fact that I know one magic trick that sometimes works but mostly doesn't. And the fact that I can make bloody good goblets out of Quality Street wrappers. And the fact that I'd be excellent at juggling, if only I could keep more than one ball in the air. Actually, now that I've started to list these things, I can see that, in reality, I've got quite a lot going for me. If I were not myself, I would quite enjoy meeting me. In fact, I think that even though I am myself, I would still quite enjoy meeting me. I must arrange it. Perhaps for the week after next, because next week I'm very busy and just don't see how I can fit me in.
Anyway, we order a minicab to take us there, which is, of course, the minicab from hell, as they all are. 'Somerset House? The Strand? Is that in Walthamstow? Mind if I play Kiss FM at a volume likely to make your brain explode? Mind if the suspension went in 1971 so that your head is going to ricochet off the roof every time we go over a pebble?' Honestly, I haven't had so much fun since I was talked into going on a waltzer at the funfair, vomited, got horrendous whiplash and had to take to my bed for a week. Luckily, I hadn't arranged to meet myself that week. because I'd only have had to cancel.
Time for a shaming confession: I was born in London, have lived in London all my life, and yet I'd never been to Somerset House before. This is truly disgraceful, I know, and I'm not sure how to account for it, although being too lazy ever to stray from Crouch End might form a substantial part of the explanation. Somerset House is truly glorious. It is said to be the most important 18thcentury building in London, and it is magnificent, particularly the courtyard, with its 55 water jets, which, in the winter, becomes an ice rink. Honestly, you gasp as you walk though the courtyard. Unfortunately, though, you do not gasp when you walk into the Admiralty. There is nothing wrong with the Admiralty as such: it's just that there is no view of the courtyard. Or even of the Thames on the other side. You could be anywhere. You could be in. . . Crouch End? That'll teach me.
There are 15 of us in the party. We are seated around one long table in the diningroom, which is olive-green and has a big antlered thing on one wall and a tiny fawn's head on the other, which seems spookily unfortunate. The party menu costs £40 a head, excluding wine and service. It is fancy French. The starters are either 'Tian of Two Salmons, Horseradish Cream, Smoked Eel, Beetroot Bavarois, Apple and Cucumber Dressing' or 'Ballottine of Foie Gras, Wild Asparagus Salad, Beaumes de Venise Jelly and Compote of Figs'. I did not choose the latter, for obvious moral reasons. Compote of figs, as you are probably aware, is produced via the utmost cruelty: figs are forcefed increasing amounts of food — up to 450g a day — just before slaughter. This can produce a fig about 10 times the size of a normal one. Moreover, the feeding is done by restraining the figs, then forcing grain into them through a tube. What can you do to help? Do not buy compote of figs in any form. If you see it served in a restaurant or sold in a shop, write and tell them of your concerns. Write to your local press — especially at Christmas, when figgy pudding is traditionally eaten — to tell them about the welfare implications of this so-called 'delicacy'. Join CIWF (Compassion In World Figgery) to keep up-to-date with campaigns. It's a shame. though; I couldn't have had this particular starter, because I do absolutely adore foie gras. (All donations to the CIWF gratefully accepted, by the way. And, while we are on the subject of donations, never, ever give to the WWF. I did once, thinking that it would help pandas, but then I turned on the telly and there were all these disgusting people beating the shit out of each other. Prince Philip, who is the patron of the WWF, should be thoroughly ashamed of himself.) Our starters arrive. I am starving, frankly. OK. I didn't exactly skip elevenses and lunch to make room for this meal, but I did skip twoses and threeses, and would have skipped fourses, if only I hadn't caved in and had six Jaffa Cakes and a Scotch egg. I am a greedy person, and am looking forward heartily to tucking in, which I would have done, if only there was something heartily to tuck into. The food comes on big white plates. What there is of the food, that is. My tian of two salmons is thimble-sized, and the smoked eel is the size of a baby's fingernail — a premature baby's fingernail. They are just two little dots on a huge white plate. Indeed, if the smoked eel were to shout to the tian of two salmons, '0i, mate. Over here,' the tian of two salmons would reply, Did someone say something? Anybody there?' I'm sure, though, that it tasted delicious. Or then again, maybe not. There just wasn't enough of the stuff to get a hang of the flavours. I am glad that I had the six Jaffa Cakes and that Scotch egg. I'm already regretting not having had 29 Jaffa Cakes, 42 Scotch eggs and maybe a pork pie. (My partner, by the way, ordered the other starter, an act of gross disloyalty considering I'm a leading light in the CIWF movement. I hope that it doesn't make the papers.) The next course? Same thing again. I'd ordered the fabulous-sounding 'Roasted Rack of Welsh Lamb Basted with Herbs, Ragout of Artichokes and Confit Garlic, Aubergine Caviar, Balsamic and Rosemary Jus.' And? Yup, a huge white plate with practically nothing on it. The lamb (cooked pink to perfection, admittedly) came in the form of three little circles, the size of 10p pieces. What lamb has such a tiny rack, I wonder? I keep thinking: when are they going to bring the potatoes? When are they going to bring the veg? The answer? Never. This is it. Still, I don't say anything, because I don't want to appear rude. And maybe it's just me. Maybe this is sufficient for most people's appetites. Later, though, when we get back to Stuart and Louise's house in Crouch End (phew, safe at last!) the grumbles start.
'What did you think of the food?' I ask Deborah, who isn't me, but is another Deborah, a friend of Louise's who also happens to be a fantastic sculptress, and who has made Louise such a fantastic sculpture for her birthday that my own gift, in comparison, looks rather crap, even though it's one of the best goblets I've ever made. 'What food?' says Deborah.
'Not so much a meal, more a spot-thefood-competition,' says my partner.
'Ounce for ounce, it must be the most expensive restaurant in London,' says Stuart.
'Ounce for ounce, it was more expensive than plutonium,' says Peter, the other Deborah's husband.
'I had the halibut and puy lentils, and the single puy lentil was the biggest thing on my plate,' says Louise.
Still. I cheer everyone up by doing my magic trick that sometimes works but, on this occasion, sadly didn't. Then I did some juggling. Truly, my juggling would be excellent, if only I could keep more than one ball in the air. I am quite something, I agree. I really must arrange to meet myself sooner rather than later. Toodlepip!
Admiralty, Somerset House, The Strand, London WC2. Tel: 020 7845 4646.
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