Home life
Wayside grazing
Alice Thomas Ellis
Iwas sitting in Cheng Du at lunchtime the other day waiting for my companion to arrive as arranged. And waiting. The third son who was also expected was at home also waiting — for his hair or his shirt to dry, I think. I get bored sitting by myself in restaurants. Even other people's conversa- tions need two eavesdroppers just as ghosts need two witnesses. Other people's con- versations are sometimes quite unbeliev- able and as you recount them your audi- ence assumes that sceptical expression which makes you start shouting: It's true, I tell you. True, true! After a while I requested the waiter to telephone the son and tell him to get a move on. All around me customers were tucking into the Szechuan prawns and the black bean sauce and I wanted to hasten through the various courses until I could get to the banana fritters which are my current passion. When the son finally arrived and the other expected companion had not I had an inspiration. It was Friday but I hadn't yet read my Spectator. 'Nip round to the newsagent,' I said, 'and buy another copy. Set the sales figures soaring.' Turning to the end, I read, 'Jeffrey Ber- nard will be back next week.' A week is a long time to wait so we ordered. Then we thought we might as well make a party out of it so we telephoned the fifth son and invited him too.
It has taken many years for me to eat in restaurants without a sense of guilt. In some establishments I still have misgivings as to the standards of hygiene behind the scenes, but Cheng Du positively sparkles with cleanliness and I'd rather have lunch there than a bacon sandwich in my own kitchen. It is very near to home and so there are no problems with transport, and in my opinion Cheng Du is the brightest spot on the face of the rapidly changing Camden Town. Once upon a time the choice of restaurants was limited. Quite a few Greek, one Chinese, one Italian and assorted greasy spoons. Now they range from French and German to Japanese, and at the weekend you can graze on all manner of exotic delicacies from wayside stalls — kebabs and samosas and chow- chow and tempura. A welcome change from hamburgers and hot dogs and surely healthier. You can watch them being pre- pared and not have to worry that the chef may not be concentrating because he's too busy jumping on the cockroaches or chas- ing a rat along the draining board.
My prejudices about eating out are not dead and I still recommend that people choose a simple grill rather than the made dishes which in the past have certainly harboured the scrapings from other diners' plates. Diana Melly relates that she once knew a place where yesterday's spaghetti bolognaise was today's minestrone. I have to admit that I do that sort of thing at home — left-over fish pie is transformed into fish cakes, roast lamb into moussaka and pork into rissoles — but this is thriftily tradition- al and permissible in the housewife. One does not expect to pay through the nose for second-hand food when splashing out in a restaurant.
I have just remembered that it is some time since I visited L'Armandier, where I fly through the first course in order to get to the creme brulee, so when Jeff comes back he may well find me there. Otherwise I might be strolling along the High Street with a hunk of pitta bread. I won't be in my pinny stirring the soupe bonne femme. My outlook is becoming more Parisian and Mrs Beeton can go and boil her head.
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