I'VE decided to take myself out for a treat. No.
it's not because I'm worth it. I've never known anyone less worth it than me, frankly. My diet? Going brilliantly, thanks for asking, although I've yet to lose any weight. No, it's because I fancy it. And because I don't get treated very often. My partner isn't into treats. My partner is Welsh. Now, before anyone has a go at me. I'd just like to say I have absolutely nothing against the Welsh, although I do rather suspect they make up their language as they go along just to annoy the English. 'Quick, quick, here comes an English person, talk in consonants and double l's and go-gos. Chlygygohgo-11-go11-go. . . ' Yes, you may report me to the Race Relations Board, if you so wish, but, in my defence, I would just like to say this: the Welsh cake? Isn't that just a scone that's been stamped on, or what?
Anyway, my partner, Taffy-Hywel (not his real name, but so?), does have that Welsh thing whereby he sees virtue in discomfort, doesn't like things to be too easy. Or, alternatively, he might just be thick. For example, he'll spend all day hanging out the washing, rushing it in at the first sign of rain, and rushing it out again the moment the rain ceases. I wouldn't mind, BUT WE'VE GOT A TUMBLE DRYER! And our holidays! Do you know, he got me to go on a teepee holiday in Cornwall once. And? It was lovely. Smashing. Like a music festival, without the music or the festival. Just rain and mud and no proper loos. Jewish princess? Me? Get outta here! Although, that said, I will take the lift in M&S (Muswell Hill) rather than climb the single flight of stairs, but, as I see it, what's the point of doing exercise when you haven't paid a lot of money to a gym? One shouldn't give it away for free, should one?
Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, a treat. So I book us in at Spoon +, the restaurant in the Sanderson Hotel, which is one of those incredibly hip, Ian Schrager/Phillippe Starck jobbies. I then present this to TaffyHywel — still not his real name, but so? — as a fait accompli. `We are going to Spoon + at the Sanderson Hotel on Saturday night,' I tell him. He says: `Chmkryychnogllogllogllog,' which, I think, loosely translates as: 'Saturday night? But it's Wales v. Armenia in the World Cup qualifiers.' Yes, but it's not on telly, is it? 'No, but I could watch it on Teletext.' Great, I say, let's both stay in. Make a night of it. Get out the Kettle Chips. And dips. Invite people over. 'Terrific,' he says. 'Thanks.'
In the end, we compromise. He'll come with me — gee, thanks — but only if we go by bus. Bus! Yes, he insists, it makes sense. 'The 91 goes from the end of our road, right to Russell Square.' But the
Sanderson is on Berners Street, off Oxford Street! It's nowhere near Russell Square! 'It's only a five-minute walk.' It can't be. 'A brisk five-minute walk, then.' So, the 91 it is, and then a very long walk. I complain: 'This is not five minutes.' He replies: 'It would be, if only you'd stop sulking and dragging your feet.' Often people ask me: `Deborah, what do you see in him?' Well, he does have his good points, if only I could think of them. Oh yes, I know. He
has, at least, stopped shouting 'I can't believe you like this rubbish' during ER and Sex and the City. OK, I had to elbow him from the room, close the door and then put a chair up against it, but, hey, I'm not perfect either. I've been known to ruin Heartbeat for him. 'This is total crap,' I will say which, loosely translated into English is, I believe, 'This is total crap.'
Finally, we get to the Sanderson, step into the lobby and — wow! — a hanging Perspex bubble chair. A Dali 'lips' sofa. An extended Empire settee that must be loft long. No time to hang about, though, so we go to the restaurant, announcing ourselves to the woman at front of house, who has one of those hairdos which looks as if it's been done with a spirit level, and who is so snotty it's fantastic. She says, 'Your table was booked for 7.30 p.m. and it's now 7.45 p.m., so I'll have to go and check what is happening to it.' At this point. Taffy-llywel loses it rather. 'I'll have you know,' he says, jabbing fearlessly at his watch, 'that it is only 7.35 p.m.' Sigh. Isn't he manly? This idiot from Wales?
We're led through the bar — very long, very white, very busy, very young, terrifyingly hip — into the restaurant, where our friends are already waiting for us at the table. Instantly, I can tell from the strained looks on their faces that they, too, would prefer to be anywhere but here. This place is just so ghastly and pretentious.
Take the menu, which is no ordinary menu. Oh no. Instead, it goes like this: for each course there are three vertical columns, and you have to choose one ingredient from each. Baffling? You bet. And the prices? The prices! It's so expensive that I spend most of the meal hoping and praying my credit card will stand it. What if it doesn't? What if that woman with the spirit-level hairdo is ordered to cut it up in front of me? I couldn't bear it. 'Please God, just let my credit card stand it. and I'll never ruin Heartbeat for my beloved again.'
And the food itself? Tragically, the chef is the famed Alain Ducasse, and it's fantastic. Tragically, it turns out to be the best meal any of us have ever had. I'm fast running out of space, so let me just tell you about mine. I had wild baby lettuce, followed by venison with juniper berries and wok-sealed vegetables (all so tender that it melted on the tongue), and then, for dessert, a cheesecake as soft and light and fluffy as a cloud. But would any of us go again? No. And the final bill? A whopping £350. 'Conspicuous consumption at its worst,' said Taff. Or at least, that's what I think he meant when he said. 'Ychrghjkl11-go-go-11.'
Previous page
