RESTAURANTS
IT's my birthday! And my partner is taking me out for the sort of slap-up dinner that would have been the most brilliant and gor- geous surprise, had I not had to arrange it and book it all myself at the last minute. Honestly, he's utterly useless at these things. That, or he doesn't like me especially. Prob- ably he doesn't like me especially. In fact, now that I think about it, I should have sus- pected as much a couple of Christmases ago when I bought him a piano (£800) and he bought me a plastic nose (15p, or there- abouts) on which to keep my glasses because I'm always misplacing them. That was a surprise, I can tell you. Still, that said, the plastic nose has proved exceptionally useful, whereas the piano? No one's been near it. What was I thinking of? That, sud- denly, we'd turn into the Von Trapps? Some hope. Think what we'd miss on the telly. We might miss A Touch of Frost or, worse, Big Brother. Out, Nicholas, out! You two-faced git! And Caroline? Honey, if you don't mind me saying so, the lipliner look never did a great deal for Kate O'Mara and it doesn't do a great deal for you.
Anyway, I book for Roger's Seafood Restaurant in Crouch End, north London. I book here because it's near, I adore seafood, and Roger Robar has become something of a local celebrity. Roger, who is originally from Martinique, was a chef at the Boozy Rouge (the restaurant that preceded Roger's) until 1997, when he won £5.9 mil- lion on the lottery, bought the place out, turned it into a seafood joint and instantly doubled the staff's wages. Good man! I'd been meaning to try Roger's for ages. I book for me, my partner and our eight-year-old son. I did think about inviting a few friends, but then remembered I didn't have any. Friends? Honestly, who needs them? Dread- ful, they are, coming round whenever they so fancy, guzzling all your Kettle Chips, disrupt- ing your telly schedule, and all the while droning on and on about themselves. I wouldn't drone on and on about myself like that if you paid me! The cheque's in the post? Good-oh. I'll carry on, then.
Where was I? Oh, yes — Roger's. There is a nice note from Roger in the window. It goes: `Welcome to my restaurant and please enjoy your dinner. May God Bless You Too to Win the Lottery'. I like the 'Too to'. It sounds good enough to wear. 'Be there in a minute. Just getting my Too-to on.' In we go. Inside, the decor is a rather eccentric mix of grand hotel circa 1952 (starched tablecloths, great swags of rouched curtains, elaborately sculptured serviettes, a white piano) and fisherman rustic (nets, model ships, plastic lobsters, plastic crabs). Worryingly, we seem to be the only diners here tonight, apart from one other table, and it's got Roger on it. I think about intro- ducing myself but my partner talks me out of it. 'What if you hate the food?' he says. 'Imagine, then, how embarrassing it would be, bumping into Roger in Crouch End.' This is a worry, yes. What would Roger do to me? Attack me outside one of the ever- increasing number of silly gift shops? Would he bash me over the head with one of those £429 bars of transparent soap with a leaf set in it? (What's wrong with Shield, which costs an acceptable 32p, is nicely marbled, and offers the added benefit of deodorising?) As things turn out, I am glad of my partner's wise counsel. He adores me, really. Or, at least, I think that's what he was trying to say the other night when I tried on my new biki- ni and he laughed a lot then said, 'What were you thinking of?' What a prankster!
The waiter seats us. He seems a nice boy, although he's got this awful set patter. 'Is this your first time at Roger's. . . ?' He is wearing a silver-service uniform, but of the cheapest and nastiest Bri-nylon kind. I am not in the least housewifely, as you know, but even I want to have a go at the shirt with spray starch and bleach. It's the sort of uniform reluctant teenagers wear during summer jobs in the dining-rooms of seaside boarding houses. I wouldn't mind, but the prices here! We are talking top-whack, West End, celebrity-chef expensive. In fact, we're talk- ing more than top-whack, West End, celebri- ty-chef expensive. I've done Marco Pierre White for less. We're talking an average of £25 an entrée. For that you do rather expect attention to detail. A nice shirt, at least. And nice bread. But the bread isn't nice. It's a cut- up French stick — possibly from Budgen's over the road — served with foil-wrapped Anchor butter pats. Is the Anchor butter pat commonly seen as an indication of great things to come? I think not.
The starters are about £6 a go. My part- ner has hot avocado with crab. He says it is 'bland' and 'ordinary' and 'not very nice, frankly'. I have the smoked salmon with garlic bread. The garlic bread is yet more cut-up French stick. Our son has the cala- mari. He says, 'It's delicious' and 'It's the best food I've ever had' and 'I'll give it ten out of ten.' I think he might be a bit deliri- ous. It's way past his bedtime now and the excitement has possibly got to him. Plus, he doesn't get out much. We're always much too busy in the evenings, thinking about not gathering around the piano.
I am more hopeful of the entrées. Stupidly, as there are only four to choose from, I think, well, they must do them well, mustn't they? The four are: Roger's Plateau Fruits de Mer Chaud (£30), Roger's Homard (whole lob- ster, grilled, £27.50), Roger's King Prawns (£25) or Le Poisson Grill (Dover sole or sea bass, £17.50). I go for the fruits de mer chaud. What the hell, it's my birthday. I get a little bit of lobster, a few crevettes, a few mussels and some tuna. Trouble is, it's more fruits de mer froid, woefully overcooked and horribly dry. It's not served with any juices or anything. The tuna tastes of foot. It tastes, even, of the old foot of an old Lake District fell-walker with hard skin and bunions and everything. This is a repulsive description, I know, but I don't want you Too-to ever order this particular dish. The boys have le poisson grill, sole for one, sea bass for the other. These are hideously overcooked, too. The accompaniments are plain boiled rice and sauté potatoes which taste as if they've been reheated in a microwave. The puddings come from one of those very un-Marco Pierre White, refrigerated, rotating displays. I have a chocolatey thingy that's OK, but nothing fab.
I know Roger is a Good Man. Certainly, he's involved in a lot of community initia- tives. Perhaps we visited Roger's on a bad day. Perhaps he should go back to doing the cooking himself (he doesn't any more). How does this restaurant survive? Is it just Roger's capital saving it from going down the tube? Whatever, it's been a depressing- ly expensive birthday. The final bill came to £150. Yes, we had a bottle of champagne, but still. Never mind, though. Pecker up. When we get home, we do have the best sex we've ever had. On top of the piano! OK, we don't, but I do think that's what my partner had in mind when he said, 'It's your turn to take the rubbish out' and 'Night, then.' I must think of somewhere better for my surprise birthday treat next year.
Roger's Seafood Restaurant, 48 The Broadway, Crouch End, London N8; tel: 0208 348 2609.
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