S o, to Cipriani — pronounced Chip-riani, just so you don't
make a fool of yourself — which is the latest global offshoot of the legendary Harry's Bar in Venice and is, by all accounts, the hottest ticket in town. Luckily my NBF, Nicky Haslam, the wonderful interior designer, agrees to accompany me. Without him I don't think I'd have got a look-in, frankly. When I first try to book they say they are full, then they say no, they can do a table for 6.30 p.m. Nothing later? How about 7 p.m.? I suggest. Nope, it is 6.30 p.m. or nothing. Not even 6.45 p.m.? Nope, 6.30 p.m. or nothing. What about 6.32 p.m.? I say jokingly. Nope, 6.30 p.m. or nothing, they say, bossily, after putting me on hold for what felt like several weeks. I tell Nicky it's 6.30 p.m. or nothing, not even 6.31 p.m. He says leave it with him. I do, and he gets us a table for 9 p.m., no problem. Nicky knows everybody, whereas I don't know anybody apart from Nicky. Actually, I did once quite literally bump into Dave Allen in Boots on Kensington High Street, who said, 'Can't you look where you are going, you stupid bitch?', but I'm not sure that counts.
I arrive a hit early, as I always do, having a genetic fear of being late and so always leaving enough time not only for traffic but also for abduction by aliens or my leg falling off. Anyway, it's 8.45 p.m. and the place is absolutely buzzing with the scariest crowd ever. Men in doublebreasted Armani, young women who are all ironed hair and Pucci prints and Manolos and golden fake tans and who possibly not only have their names on every list for the latest must-have handbag but track their position via satellite twice daily. The older women have Raine Spencer meringue-type hair-dos and Chanel fringed jackets and look as if they might have spent most of the day choosing marble for the bathroom. I try to get served at the bar but fail. I am simply too short, too pasty, too frizzy-haired and, I'm guessing, look like the sort of person who doesn't have a marble bathroom or any imminent plans for one. I decide to wait for Nicky just inside the front door instead, where the staff stare at me with a mixture of contempt and curiosity, as if I'm the local bag lady who has momentarily stepped inside for warmth. By now, I wish I hadn't come, wish I had been abducted by aliens, or at least chosen to go down our local Cip shop instead. I am always made to feel most at home there ... ah, here comes Nicky at last. Since we last met he has gone blond, given up smoking, and looks younger than ever. I tell him that if he keeps de-aging at his current rate he'll shortly be turning up in Baby Gap and scratch mitts, He says, 'But what about you? You look 12!"You crafty old liar,' I say. blushing madly and patting my frizz and feeling perkier already. He makes for the bar where the three-deep crowd part for him as he if were Moses and they the Red Sea, and of course he gets served instantly. I think you have to accept that if you come to Cipriani and aren't someone, it's not exactly a level playing field. We are joined by his friend Rita Konig, the Vogue and Daily Telegraph columnist, who is writing a book on how to entertain without cooking. Damn. I wish I'd thought of it. On the rare occasions I have entertained and cooked I've always resented the way guests eat the food I've spent all bloody day preparing. I've even turfed people out on to the street midstarter. I might knock Rita off her bar stool and steal the idea for myself.
We are eventually taken to our table by Arrigo Cipriani himself, the 72-year-old son of the original Harry, who knows Nicky because whenever Nicky is in Venice he gets his picnics from Harry's Bar.
Arrigo is dapper and very Italian and compliments Rita on her complexion, which is, indeed, a perfect, dewy English rose. Mysteriously, he does not compliment me on mine, or say I look 12. I rather wish I had knocked Rita off her bar stool now. The room, by the way, is quite lovely, with its ocean-liner decor and marble floor and white-jacketed. shimmying Italian waiters and the 'C' logo everywhere, just in case you think you've wandered into McDonald's. We settle at the table and are given menus. The prices, frankly, make my eyes water. Lamb chop, £32! Veal Milanese, £35! I want to shout, 'Bloody hell, have you seen the prices?' but don't, because people who come to a place like this probably don't ever look at prices. It may even be partly the point. We are instantly brought a lovely bread basket, as well as the Cipriani trademark flaky brioche 'snails' which in fact look like little breasts. We order and then realise we haven't seen a wine list. One is duly delivered, but then no one comes to see what we would like, so our starters arrive before we have even ordered any wine. In a list of restaurant crimes, this wouldn't be very near the top, hut I think if you're going to charge these sorts of prices every detail should be spot on.
I order the crab meat salad with cocktail sauce to start with, I'm not sure why. I think I saw the 'crab meat', which I love, and in my excitement did not note the 'cocktail sauce' bit. Alas, the cocktail sauce, which tastes as cocktail sauce always tastes — that is, a mix of salad cream and ketchup — drowns the crab almost entirely. How utterly disappointing, especially for £19! Rita has an asparagus, beetroot and goat's cheese salad (a snip at £12) which she says is 'delicious' although I think Nicky has made the best choice: baccala' mantecato with polenta (£19), which is salt cod whipped to a creamy paste and which I declare, after several tastes, to be entirely spellbinding.
Next. Nicky and I have the veal chop with anchovies and capers (£32). It is a big chop. It's a nice chop. As far as veal chops go, this is probably as good as it gets. It is meaty yet tender, perfectly cooked, I like it. I enjoy it. I eat it all and lick my lips. But how — how? — can anyone justify a £32 price tag on a single chop? Am I making too much of the price thing here? Am I coming over as a major tightwad? I'm just feeling, well, robbed. Rita, by the way, has the veal Milanese, which she says is scrumptious, and it is very big, as big as the dinner plate. But, still, £35 for a single ... etc., etc. I believe I might be out of my league.
In short, with a £40 bottle of wine and two puddings — a slice of lemon meringue pie and a slice of chocolate cake at £11 each — the bill came to about £100 a head. You may wish to spend this kind of money in an establishment like this, which does have a certain where-it's-at buzz, but then again you may not. It's entirely up to you. As someone who only looks 12 and will not be told otherwise, I cannot be expected to make such a decision for you. Toodle-pip!
Cipriani, 25 Davies Street, London WI. Tel: 020 7399 0500.
Previous page
