AFTER all that grumbling about this job turning out to
be rubbish and not being sufficiently appreciated and all those years of training at the LSC going to waste and never getting a single fan letter or anything, I suddenly received quite a few. Well, about ten. Yes, yes, I know. If The Spectator's readership is 60,000 or thereabouts, this means that 59,990 readers remain mysteriously indifferent. Or, to put it another way, I am admired by only 0.016 per cent of the readership. Is that figure right? I've no idea. I just made it up, frankly. I can't do anything mathematical. When I took maths 0-level, I got an E the first time and U the second time. My mother used to pay my older brother to coach me. My older brother is a very lovely, kind, patient, adorable, gentle fellow. The only time I remember him being horrid to me was when I couldn't get logarithms — hut what are they for? — and he punched me in the face. So, no, I can't do maths. Or money. I don't know where my money goes. OK, I probably spend 90 per cent of it on lipsticks, overdue videos and digital cameras I lose interest in the moment they come out of the box, but what about the rest of it? I must just waste it, I guess.
Anyway, to my fans. I have their letters here. So, thank you, Stuart and Catherine Watts of 21 Stovold's Way, Aldershot, and thank you Colin Foote of Inverness. Thank you, too, to Blockbusters, who write that I've had Mulan out for 27 months, owe them £1,982, and might they have it back or do I really want them to repossess my house? Hang on, what's this doing in the pile? Oh, damn, it must have got mixed in, which means, in effect, I probably received only nine fan letters, which may or may not represent 0.0012 of The Spectator readership. Still, that said, I think that if Blockbusters and their debt collectors knew me in person, rather than as account number 769826, they'd be fans, too. So I'll keep them in the pile for now, if you don't mind.
Now, where were we? Oh, yes. And thank you, too, to Mr Gordon Bentley, who writes in fountain-pen and has a beautiful hand but rather mean-mindedly complains that all the restaurants I review might be local to me, but are unlikely to be local to anyone else. Honestly. Mr Bentley, how
could you? Especially as travel to any place so long as it's in Crouch End and right on my doorstep. I can see that my attempts to disguise Crouch End by calling it Hornsey, south Muswell Hill, north Finsbury Park, east Wood Green and the West End (only quite a lot further north) have fooled nobody.
I accept that I must do better, so long as you all accept that 'better' will never include south London. South London? What is the point? What is there to south London, apart from those ghastly roundabouts that flummox you the moment you cross any of the bridges? Plus, of course, it has suburbs with names like Penge. Penge. It sounds like something your cat could die of. 'Yes, we had to put poor Kitty down. She had the Penge and was suffering so. And Blackie? He's been awfully affected by Kitty's death. He's had the Sidcups ever since.' When Mr Livingstone first became mayor of London I wrote to him with the rather brilliant suggestion that, while I could see that blowing up south London might be insensitive, it might be an idea to move it to Peru. Then shift the Thames and expand north London? Strangely, I've yet to receive a reply.
Still, reinvigorated by the discovery of such an extensive fan base, I did make an extra effort this week. I travelled all the way to Clerkenwell, which is so south of Crouch End that it's almost several minutes away. Here, we go to the famous Maison Novelli, run by the Michelin-starred French chef Jean Christophe Novelli. Now, I know Monsieur Novelli. Actually, 'know' might be rather overstating it, as I met him only once, when I interviewed him for the Independent. That's my other job, interviewing for the Independent. And, bizarrely, I'm as unappreciated as an interviewer as I am as a restaurant critic. This is odd as, in fact, I'm a tiptop interviewer. 'So, tell me, Stephen Hawking, what's your favourite colour?' As part of the interview, M. Novelli came to my house to cook dinner for me and some members of my family. I was in a right flap that day, I can tell you. A Michelin-starred chef! Coming to cook in my kitchen! I think that I Mr Muscled the oven at least six times. Indeed, I was with Mr Muscle for so long that Mrs Muscle must have been worrying about where he had got to. My hygiene standards, I admit, are rather on the low side. Indeed, I'm one of those people who sterilises dropped sweets by blowing on them, assuming this will remove all known germs.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen any
pictures of M. Novelli, but he is quite the most beautiful and fanciable man in the world. Truly, I couldn't believe my luck when he came that night to my house and said, straight off, 'We have sex for dinner, yes?"Yes, please,' I said. 'Or seven?' he added. 'No, sex,' I said. 'So I set the table for sex?' Yes,' I said, tut maybe we should wait until after my mother has left, you naughty Frenchman.' Your muzzer is going? So we have five?' My mother will be going eventually, then we'll have sex.' I'm not sure who was more confused.
Anyway, off we go to the actual restaurant, where we meet some friends of ours. The restaurant is tres chic — look, I'm bilingual — with hyacinth-blue walls, white linen tablecloths and wooden floors. The menu is fantastically ambitious. For starters I choose the winter vegetable soup of the day with Devon Beenleigh Blue and cepe powder froth. I could have had steamed wild mushroom du pays, poppy-seed pancake, served in a port and Madeira reduction with cepe oil and Parmesan crackling, but as I make that at home all the time, why bother? We choose a Rioja to drink. The sommelier is charming but mischievous, and keeps giving our son little amounts to taste. I suppose that I should have dissuaded him — our son is only nine, for heaven's sake — but I didn't want to seem too uptight and British. So, I let it go. Needless to say, by the time the entrées arrived our son's eyes had rolled back into his head and he was flat out on the banquette. Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and he was quiet for the rest for the meal, which is something of a delightful first.
My soup was fabulous, as was my next course — Beaufort-cheese-glazed roast beef fillet, nutmeg, flat mushroom, braised shallots, wild-mushroom risotto and Barolo wine sauce (£23). Gosh, it was heavenly. As heavenly as Monsieur Novelli who, embarrassingly, spots me and remembers the Independent business where we never got round to laying the table for sex (alas). He sits and has a drink with us. He has been through some tough times. Expanded too fast and all that, but, with the backing of his great friend Marco Pierre White, he's now back on track. He is still delicious-looking. He may even be as delicious as my dessert, chocolate fondant with white-chocolate icecream. When the bill arrives, he's chopped it down from £300 to £150. J protest — rather half-heartedly, to be sure — but he won't have it otherwise. I think that this was a genuine act of generosity as he didn't know that I was going to write about the place. He can come round to my place any time. Until it's repossessed, that is.
Maison Novelli, 29 Clerkenwell Green, London Ed]. Tel: 020 7251 6606.
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