RESTAURANTS
Deborah Ross
I PHONE my older sister and ask her if she would like to go to Harvey Nichols for lunch.
'Oh, goody,' she says. 'I'll just dust off the Christian Lacroix.'
'Don't you mean,' J say, 'the British Lahomestores?'
'Oh, very funny,' she says, pointedly. 'Habloody-ha.'
There is a certain edge to our relationship, which, yes, goes right back to when we were little. Gosh, she was magnificently bossy. It was do this and do that and don't step into my half (which was substantially bigger than my half) of the room or you'll have to be my slave for a week. If I recall rightly, which I'm sure I do, because I have neither the imagination nor the energy for false-memory syndrome, being her slave for a week meant much curtsying, much kneeling and much saying of '0, worshipful princess, what is your bidding today?' Usually, her bidding involved a great deal of fetching and carrying, any number of Chinese burns, plus listening attentively while she convinced me that [was adopted, How cruel is that? Well, not very, actually, because I rather fancied being adopted. I minded much more when I discovered that I wasn't. Oh, the disappointment, not least because by that time I'd concocted a lot of fantasies, most of which had something to do with door-slamming and shouting, 'What do you care? You are not my real mother/father!' Also, when my real parents traced me, as they most certainly would, they would turn out to own a Cadbury's Creme Egg factory, to which my sister would one day come begging for Creme Eggs. But would I unpadlock the factory gates? No, I would not. 'Be off with you!' I would cry. 'And, anyway, I've got to go and feed my pony now.' What role did our older brother play in all this? Certainly, he wasn't as nasty as us, but he would write -Up the Gunners' in laundrypens on our foreheads while we slept at night. Indeed, should you ever have the misfortune of looking through our old family photograph albums, you will note that my sister and I always had hair-dos designed to incorporate very long, thick fringes. (Childhood. It's a good job it happens early on, otherwise who would ever survive it?)
Anyway, off to Harvey Nicks. That is me, my fully blood-related sister and her newborn (as opposed to old-born'?) son. Frankly, he's much smarter than either of us, in his Benetton and Osh Kosh B'gosh and dribble. Dribble, I've found, just cannot be worn after a certain age. Well, it can, but it's not a particularly good look. Across the ground floor we go, which is crammed with seductive cosmetic counter after seductive cosmetic counter — so many lipsticks! How I wish I had more lips! — and
then have what was meant to be a quick peek into the new 'Beyond Beauty' section, even though some might say my sister and I are so far beyond beauty we've effectively emigrated. (Have I told you, by the way, of the time I was told I looked like the Hollywood actress Ellen Barkin? Well, I was so pitifully chuffed, I immediately called a film-buff friend of mine. 'You know the actress Ellen Barkin?' I said. 'Yes,' he said. 'Isn't she bloody ugly? What about her. anyway?"Urn. . ' I said,
. nothing . . you and the family all OK? Nice holiday?') In Beyond Beauty you can get all manner of fancy lotions and potions — spray-on folic acid, anyone, at £22? — plus the latest thing, an oxygen bar. Have you noticed how these days the best things in life are no longer free? How nothing is worth anything any more unless you've had to pay for it? Water, exercise — how many people will do an hour on a treadmill at an expensive gym, but won't walk to the corner to post a letter? — and, now, air. 'It's ridiculous,' I say. 'Absurd,' says my sister. 'Shall we have a go?' I say. 'Yes,' says my sister. The baby doesn't say very much. Just carries on dribbling down his Benetton and Osh Kosh B'gosh. I fear he may be severely retarded. Should I say something, before it's too late to put him up for adoption?
So, a quick blast of pure oxygen through a mask thingie, which costs £10 for five minutes. Do we feel 'energised' afterwards? Have I been given the strength for a bit of false-memory syndrome? When we were young, did my sister really make me play Who Can Drink the Most Water Before Going to Bed and Not Wet Themselves in the Night? 'Did you?' I ask. 'Yes,' she confirms, adding that once I was asleep she sneaked to the toilet, which is why I always lost and woke up in the early hours in a bed that was less a bed, more a lake. So, a total waste of a termer? Absolutely. Still, onwards and upwards to the restaurant on the fifth floor which, intriguingly, is called Fifth Floor. Up, up, up we go, on the escalators, following all the smart ladies in their Burberry raincoats with matching Burberry handbags and Burberry scarves and Burberry shoes and Burberry-patterned verrucas, for all we know. 'Burberry is vile,' says my sister. 'Burberry says, "I'm a slave to fashion. I have no mind of my own".' Does it? 'Yes, we don't need Burberry. We have our own style.' Do we? 'Yes.' How would you describe it? Our style? 'Don't get pedantic. Or 1'11 make you be my slave for a week. As it is, I'm already tempted to brush up on my Chinese burns.'
The restaurant is nice, full of light, spacious, and surprisingly unintimidating considering we are not the usual ladies who lunch, are Burberry-less and have a baby with us. The staff — black-clad. elegant — make a satisfying fuss of him, There are lots of `goo-goo-goo-goos'. The baby, again, says nothing. Truly, he is a worry. The menu, thankfully, isn't too fussy, and is reasonably priced at £21 for two courses. My sister has the crab and lobster cake to start, whereas I have the cream of cauliflower soup. Both are perfectly executed, but nothing that special, frankly. Then it's fillet of sea bass with a red wine jus for her and grilled lemon sole with butter and garlic for me. Again, perfectly executed, although the portions are a little piddling. For example, the accompanying vegetables allow for only two new potatoes each. Is this deliberate? So as to avoid the sort of bloating that might affect postlunch Burberry bikini sales'? Perhaps, although I must say that I feel a little cheated. If I go out to lunch. I rather like to know I've been out to lunch. For pudding we order an apple and cinnamon tart with vanilla ice-cream and two spoons. My sister divides it in half. Strangely, her half looks considerably more substantial than my half. The meal has been fine, but, as my sister says, 'A bit of a bland experience. Not exactly memorable'.
We leave via the babywear department, where you can get Burberry all-in-ones and Baby Dior cashmere jumpers, which are the size of hankies and cost £148. 'Absurd,' I say. 'Ridiculous,' says my sister. No, we don't get one, but! think that we were both hoping that the other would turn her back, so we could. Then it's back through the lipsticks and eyeshadows, past the 'beauty consultants' who look as though they called in the plasterers to help them with their make-up, and into a taxi. 'My treat,' I tell my sister because, deep down, I love her. Still, whether I'll let her at the Creme Eggs when my real parents turn up is, of course, another matter.
Fifth Floor Restaurant, Harvey Nichols, Knightsbridge, SW]. Tel: 020 7235 5250.
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