RESTAURANTS

Deborah Ross

I AM writing this with the most appalling, head-thumping, dry-mouthed, revolting, serves-me-right hangover. Or 'hanging over', as my young son always has it. 'No. Sorry. Mummy can't come to the phone. She is in bed with a hanging over.'

'Darling, couldn't you just say mummy isn't available, and will call back later?' `OK.'

'Good.'

'Sorry. Mummy isn't available. She's in bed with a hanging over. I had to get my own breakfast and everything. I had crisps.'

Anyway, where is all this taking us? Well, some way into the piece, as it happens, which is good because, with my head going thump- thump-bang as it is, I need to get this over with quite quickly today, and certainly by 2 p.m., so that I can lie on the sofa in a wan, hung-over, self-pitying kind of way and watch Open House with Gloria Hunniford. I particu- larly adore Gloria's biting line of questioning with her celebrity guests: `So, Les Dennis, what makes you so talented, do you think? Were you born with it?' It's just so immense- ly cheering and brain-coddling, especially when you have been to the Dorchester Club the night before and are suffering.

Now, why did I go to the Dorchester Club? Do you know, I've no idea. I can't remember. I'll just phone Gina, who came with me, and ask her.

'Gina? Why did we go to the Dorchester Club?'

'Because we wanted to pull rich men.' 'Did we? Why?'

'Because we went to that seminar!'

Oh yes. The seminar. This was given M London last week by Ginie Sayles, the mad Texan woman who wrote the bestseller How to Many Rich and goes about preaching: 'The rich have to many someone. Why not YOU?' We went, I hasten to add, not because we are sad, shallow gold-diggers but because . . . urn . . . oh, all right, we are. It was a good seminar, full of useful, practical advice. 'Wear sophisticated clothes,' she said. 'Change your name if it's dowdy,' she said. 'Get a job in an alcohol- or drug-dependency unit that caters for wealthy people,' she said. 'Right,' we said afterwards. 'Let's go! Let's get to where the rich blokes are!' And where are the rich blokes? The Dorchester Club, we are informed. Actually, you have to be a member to get into the Dorchester Club — the swanky nightclub/restaurant underneath the Dorchester Hotel — but Gina knows someone who knows someone Who knows someone called Jack who man- ages to blag us in. I think Jack once shared a packet of smoky bacon crisps with Anthea Turner or something. The evening starts incredibly badly, I must say. It is raining torrentially when I get out at Marble Arch tube, and I'm early, Now, I could go straight to the Dorchester Hotel itself and hang about in reception, but I'm rather reluctant to do this because I know I will draw suspicious glances. I just don't look right in smart hotels. 'The rich have to marry someone. Why not you?' Because I look rubbish, Ginie. Because I just can't cut it. Doormen stare at me. Concierges stare at me. I'm sure they think I'm some pitiful bag-lady who has stepped inside for the warmth. I just can't do smart. I think you possibly have to have a hor- mone for it. Certainly, though, I would like to be smart. Indeed, in my fantasy life I'm a stockbroker in a red suit with shoulder pads and a little Prada handbag with matching £894 key fob.

Now, where were we? Oh yes, it's raining and I'm early, so I go into the big KFC at Marble Arch. (Girlie, I'm sure, would die if she knew.) I order coffee at the neon counter and get it with a little pot of `Millac Maid' which, the lid promises, has 'all the taste of fresh milk'. Yum yum. The posters inform me of the latest 'hot offers' from Colonel Sanders, including 'three spicy wings for 99p'. I feel depressed. I can't do smart but I don't like poor. I leave and begin walking down Park Lane, where things, thankfully, just get posher and posher; where the BMW sale- room becomes a Jaguar one and the Jaguar one becomes a Porsche one and so on, all the way to the Dorchester Club, which has a dis- creet, separate, side entrance.

I go in, giving my name to the manager, who stands at a little desk at the top of the 'Sorry — capital letters are off' stairs. He takes me down into the dimly lit bar area, which is done out in an incredibly wonderful old-fashioned way. You know, columns and heavy drapes, swirly carpets and ribboned chairs, heavy pictures of dogs and horses. I think if the Dorchester Club ever chucked out its chintz, it would have to pretty much start again from scratch. I like it, though. It's almost cosy. But I am the only one here — agghhhh! I'm so conspicuous! 'Would madam like an aperitif?' I order a glass of champagne. Just to calm my nerves, you understand. And then another.

Gina arrives. 'We're the only people here,' I hiss. 'No rich blokes?' she hisses back. 'No anyone!' I exclaim. 'It's a Monday,' explains the manager, 'Our worst night. On Satur- days, we're packed.'

The menu arrives. `Do you do three spicy wings for 99p?' I ask the waiter. 'No,' he says. 'OK,' I say, 'then I'll just have to have the oak-smoked wild Scottish salmon with crab- meat and spring onions and pickled ginger (£16) followed by the toumedos of beef topped with Stilton mousse, Dauphin pota- toes and a port-wine jus (00), thank you.' Gina goes for the pan-fried medallions of foie gras with crushed walnuts, celeriac and apple remoulade (£30) followed by noisette of new season lamb with pimento confit 424 whatever that is. We receive a compli- mentary appetiser, too. It's a little piece of delicious rare meat. 'Pork?' I ask the waiter. 'Duck,' he replies. 'Isn't it funny how duck sometimes tastes just like pork?' I exclaim. 'Yes,' says the waiter kindly.

The food — which comes from the same kitchen that serves the more famous Dorch- ester Grill Room in the main hotel — is lovely. Truly, it's faultless. The beef, particu- larly, just melts in the mouth. We share a bottle of £40 St Emilion. For pudding I have a kind of banana and honeycomb thing that tastes like an utterly scrumptious, deluxe Crunchie. We then have coffee. And a brandy. And then another brandy. Just to calm our nerves. It's midnight by now and we've been the only diners all night, bar a foursome of twentysomethings. A foursome of twentysomethings? In a place like this? 'We have a junior membership,' explains the manager, adding forlornly, 'You shouldn't have come on a Monday. Mondays are bad.' 'We'll drink to that!' we exclaim.

We never get on to the dance floor. There is no one to dance with. Still, we're made to feel very comfortable, and don't leave until 1 a.m. Or was it 2 a.m? I don't know. All I know is that I'm going for my lie-down now. Please, don't phone! 'Sorry, mummy isn't available. She's still got the hanging over. I had to drive myself to school and everything.

The Dorchester Club, Park Lane, London W.1; tel: 020 7495 7344.