I TREASURE my hangovers. They're the proof that I don't
drink too much, because serious topers don't get them. When did you ever hear the bushy-faced chap on the park bench saying, Teugh. Take that can of Strongbow away. A drink is the last thing I want after last night.' Therefore, hangovers confirm that one's over-vigorous bibbing is an occasional aberration in an otherwise moderate life.
But they do pose a problem beyond their unpleasantness. The classic symptom of a hangover — as physiologically derived as the walking-through-cotton-wool feeling — is a barely satiable desire for food. For many people, succumbing to this urge is a pleasure. It is compensation for the pain — the final element in a hedonistic voyage Which began with that first, innocuous glass of whatever it was at six the previous evening. In the fry-up and mug of sweet tea they find what we are learning to call Closure.
Fine. Let them eat bacon. But that way fatness lies. And that is a condition much to be avoided, believe me. On this matter, I Speak with an absolute authority which Journalism usually lacks. And it's not just the sausage that's dangerous. The hun- goveree has, by definition, already con- sumed thousands of calories of alcohol, not to mention the lunatic snack knocked up at One o'clock in the morning. In one such episode last week I conceived — for the Children's lunchboxes, would you believe?
a beefburger shaped like a pizza. My front-toothless daughter had previously Complained that the ordinary-thickness beefburger I had made for her miniature granary bun the previous week was beyond her restricted masticatory ken. Therefore, arriving home drunk, I finely diced some onions, mixed them with some seasoned Mince, shaped the meat into a disc ten inches across and an eighth of an inch thick, fried it in a little oil, and cut out miniature circles from the results, which I Put into the diminutive buns. The children, needless to say, were nonplussed. But my subject is hangovers, not drunk- enness, and how to treat the lust for food Which hangovers entail. The answer, dear reader, is oysters. Like bacon, bread and, for the younger reader, Coca-Cola, native oysters are the kind of things one's body feels it needs the morning after. Doubtless they contain certain minerals, proteins and other delights for which our nervous sys- tems sense the need. It is unwise to argue with the body at such times. And who am I to turn my nose up at Wiltons?
For oysters, obviously, means Wiltons. Initially, this might be thought to pose a logistical problem. The mania for calorific intake, after all, is it its strongest at seven in the morning, when one is buttering one's children's toast on unsteady legs. Whereas Wiltons, being a traditional restaurant, does not open till 12.30 in the afternoon. I am able to reveal that this is not an insu- perable problem. I have discovered that, once the initial food-lechery has been sated by a modest snack such as the crusts from one's daughter's lunchbox sandwiches, the more gnawing, longer-term desperation can be deferred. One need only make a promise to one's stomach that nary three hours shall pass ere Wiltons shall bid it good welcome.
And so it was that I arrived there at 12.45. J had attempted to reserve a table the moment I struck the bargain with my stomach, and learnt that they could only accommodate us at the bar. This is consid- ered an inferior situation, particularly for those eating a deux, but I much prefer it. There can be few more amusing places to gobble. The most plutocratic restaurant in London (as a now notorious plutocrat once whispered in my ear), Wiltons is so unashamedly old-fashioned, posh and decadent that it cannot help but be a wry self-parody. The staff greet regulars like respectful almost-friends, and strangers like almost-regulars. They say things to doddering octogenarians like, 'Good after- n0000n, General. Are you in peak condi- tion, and ready for the festive season? In top form, sir? A glass of your usual chardonnay for you today, sir?' However infrequently you go, they always remem- ber what you drink if you sit at the bar. The old gent on my left last week mur- mured his approval that Laurent Perrier remains the house champagne. At Boo- dle's, he continued, they've swapped it for an inferior brand, without, he thought, lowering the price.
It's all, as my wife said, very, very, amus- ing. And it's brilliantly done. If it wasn't, it would be annoying. But the service is per- fect, the attention to detail outstanding. The menu is plain but consistent and based on the most excellent ingredients. Mrs S. had langoustine and crab followed by scal- lops, all of which were little more than cooked and put on the plate, but were won- derful nevertheless.
Naturally, it doesn't come cheap. Wiltons can be surreally expensive, particu- larly if you start boozing (which is another reason to go there when you have no desire to drink). The native oysters, though, are a relative bargain. At £24 for 9, they cost only 16 pence more each than when one eats them crammed in with the Eurotrash at the oyster bar in Selfridges food hall. And they are a lot better at Wiltons than they are at Selfridges. Or, indeed, than anywhere else. I reckon myself to be a fair judge of an oyster. I'm not an expert, by any means (though I've read, and recom- mend, Robert Neild's eccentric but erudite book, The English, the French and the Oys- ter, Quiller Press, 1995). I have eaten many oysters in many different countries, and I think the natives at Wiltons are consistent- ly the best. They know what they're buying, they know how to keep them and they know how to serve them. They have differ- ent numbers (sizes) at different times of the season, and depending on what they can lay their hands on.
What is more, it is my belief — and I do not say such things lightly — that a top- quality English native oyster consumed with shallot vinegar is the finest food it is possible to eat. It laughs in the face of cui- sine. There is nothing a chef can do to rival the taste and texture of these bivalves. They are perfect. On the tooth, they have the exquisite texture which the fat little cheek of a baby looks as though it should have, but presumably doesn't. And they taste like the sea smells as though it should taste, but doesn't. I had 27, with plenty of water, and felt much better.
Wiltons, 55 Jernzyn St, London SW1; tel: 020 7629 9955.
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