RESTAURANTS AS THEATRE
I HAVE discovered the most effective diet in the world — so simple anyone can follow it. All you have to do is run a marathon and follow that up with a trapped nerve in your tooth. I can guarantee that after a week you will lose half a stone. Returning from a hol- iday in the Caribbean where I spent my time smothering butter on lobster tails and drinking rum cocktails, I went straight to the starting blocks for the London marathon. As I slipped on the wet cobbles around the Tower of London, I consoled myself with the thought of ending my mis- ery with eggs Benedict at Le Caprice. Every few minutes I mentally broke the yolk of my two poached eggs and dunked a few chips. But by the time I got to the finishing line it wasn't the mud on my legs that pre- vented me from posing on the bar stool; my muscles ached so much all I wanted to do was stagger to bed.
The next morning the toothache began. The pain was more excruciating than any 26-mile run. The dentist was baffled, as was the doctor. I was convinced that all that Jolting about had done it. For the next few days I lived on mouthwashes, Disprin and soup, celebrating my birthday with liq- uidised chocolate cake.
In my rare lucid moments, I plotted the return of my curves. I wanted to break my fast with a feast — at least six courses. The problem was finding anyone to share it. Everyone accepted with a caveat. 'Of course, fantastic, but I might not get to the pudding.' Alternatively, 'I'll share your chips' or, worst of all, 'It would be fun watching you eat.' No one ever binges in public any more.
`We'll have you on solids by Friday night,' the doctor said. The word 'solid' ranks with 'moist' as one of the most off- putting in the English dictionary, but I wasn't going to be distracted. I'd found the Perfect answer, Anthony Worrall-Thomp- son's new restaurant Woz, down the hill from us in Notting Hill Gate. Since it Opened last year, I'd been deterred by its name scrawled in Jamaican green, yellow and red and by the municipal shower cur- tain in the front window. Now I remem- bered that the funky, check-trousered tele- vision cook's latest gimmick was a set five- course meal. I could have my banquet cooked by a three-star kitchen for £22.95 and my guests would have no choice but to Join in. The restaurant is meant to imitate a din- ner party. In the mid-1980s AW-T was one of the first to work out that the soil-6es and at-homes with their hideous placements and sweaty hostesses were as dead as cum- merbunds. Instead, the likes of Wozza and Conran taught the British to eat at restau- rants. Now, just as we have become fluent at deciphering menus and trained to vacate our tables in two hours, AW-T has decreed that the suburban dinner party is back.
We parted the shower curtain on a Fri- day night and were led from the cheery Jamaican uplands to a small French boudoir downstairs with aubergine walls and velvet-upholstered chairs. There were no brown bean-bags sagging in the corner, but the taped music was the kind you used to get in the 1970s when dinner parties were supposed to end with After Eights and key-swapping.
My husband hadn't been able to face warning our two guests not to have lunch that day (after all, the whole point of din- ner parties is that you never know what quantity of guests or food will be thrown at you). After fiddling with their hands for a few minutes, they summoned the waitress for a menu. 'There aren't any menus, the food is a surprise,' she said chirpily. They looked appalled. 'But 'I'm allergic to smoked meats, cheese and mushrooms,' said one. 'There's lots to eat, just fish around,' said our waitress. 'Can't you give us a hint?' I asked. 'Now that would spoil it, wouldn't it?' the waitress said knowingly.
The bread and olives arrived. 'Pace your- self,' said the waitress. I'd heard enough about pacing myself during the marathon. So while the others sat back, I tasted the `She's very shallow but he's still out of his depth.' pineapple, carrot, ginger and tomato breads and deposited 30 olive stones neatly in the ash-tray. Antipasti was the next course. However hard such morsels try, they always end up looking like leftovers from the supermarket salad bar. These were no exception. The mushrooms were ruined by aniseed, the artichoke hearts hadn't perked up with the addition of honey, and 'cauliflower fungus' tasted like mould. But the courgette fritters were spot- on, as were the slivers of calf's liver dusted with cumin. The wine arrived, 'with a hint of blackberry', the waitress said.
It was relaxing not worrying whether you should have stuck to the risotto or ordered your neighbour's red mullet sashimi. Because there were four more courses, you didn't panic that you weren't getting your fair share and we soon stopped feeling the urge to jump up and help clear the plates.
The antipasti were followed by a steam- ing earthenware bowl, exactly the kind once seen on wedding lists alongside hostess trolleys and asparagus-holders. AW-T had done his research. Inside was pasta. Noth- ing refined, the recipe could have come from Delia Smith's first Tuscan book: more aniseed, tomatoes and oil mixed into some fusilli. We were on to our second bottle.
`Would you like a little break?' the wait- ress asked. 'No, we'll plough on,' we said manfully, beginning to enjoy being force- fed this hit-and-miss repast. The main course was coq au yin, a dish I vaguely remember my mother trying out on mer- chant bankers. My husband didn't even recognise a button mushroom, 'Is this relat- ed to a chanterelle?' The sauce was authen- tic but too floury.
The others were floundering over cheese. But unless we sampled a little, it didn't look as though we would be allowed any pud- ding. By now I expected a cellophane selec- tion, but it was exquisite, Spanish pico blue with quince jelly and a couple of home- made crackers. The pudding was half a chocolate and cherry tart and was equally delicious when doused in double cream. Both, however, could have come from a good deli like Felicitous down the road.
By the time the bill arrived it was 12.50 a.m., but no one complained; in fact it seemed we were leaving early. The dinner had lasted more than four and a half hours, longer than my marathon. In the course of it we didn't see a single healthy vegetable or salad. Ladies in Versace will need to bring extra safety-pins and courting couples should avoid it. After five courses of glut- tony there is no scope for other sins. The next day I had such a bad hangover I was back on the aspirin, but I remembered what fun going out could be, especially when you were pretending to be staying in.
Alice Thomson
Woz: 46 Golbome Road, London W10; tel: 0181 968 2200. Five-course dinner, including coffee, £22.95.
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