Tuesday, 16 October 2012

In which I borrow someone else's boyfriend

A week or so ago, Twitter came up trumps as it occasionally does, and bestowed upon me two money-could-buy-but-only-if-you-were-in-possession-of-an-American-Express-card-and-£85-each-to-spend-on-lunch tickets to an exclusive event they were running as part of the London Restaurant Festival.

“Hurrah,” thought I. “Freebie tickets to an excellent lunch. There’s nothing about this that I don’t like.”

Until began the game of trying to get someone to come with me. I’d have thought free tickets to an excellent lunch would prove rather easy to give away. Eh, wrong again.

I don’t think I’ll have the time, The Writer emailed when I told him. I’m going to be working all weekend.

*Sob*, came the next response, from PolitiGal. I shall be at Conference.

At which point I thought, “well, if my boyfriend can’t come, and my friend can’t come, I wonder whether my friend’s boyfriend might be able to oblige?”

Which is how, at 12.30pm on a Sunday lunchtime, I found myself sitting across the table from The Spectator, a chap for whom I have an enormous amount of time and fondness, yet with whom I spend no time if it’s not with PG. So, for the two of us to be lunching together and without our respective other halves was rather a change in dynamic. And possibly because this was the first time we’d ever pursued a diversion by ourselves, the whole afternoon had a mildly illicit air to it – that feeling you get when you’re doing something you shouldn’t, a bit like bunking off Games.

The whackingly decadent nature of the activity didn’t help.



We sat down at our table at Moro in Exmouth Market, where Jacob Kenedy (of Bocca di Lupo fame) was also in the kitchen, to be presented with a glass of champagne each, and a menu that would put Mr. Creosote to shame. Some five hours, five large courses, and somewhere in the region of several bottles later, we staggered up from our chairs, utterly sated and more than a little bit drunk, to waddle creakingly towards home.

A few thoughts that stuck with me whilst I was doing so were that:

I might not have enough time in my life to stuff a mussel, but I’m bloody glad other people do.

Tortellini and amaretti is a combination of staggering genius. If you see anyone wandering around M&S food in the near future, with an apparently random basket of fresh pasta and some biscuits, you know what’s for supper at mine.

Arroz negro is MUCH easier to eat in a publically respectable manner than squid ink spaghetti.

There is no such thing as too big a scallop.

Sparkling dessert wine might just be the work of true brilliance.

I must eat at Moro more often.

I desperately needed a) to pee; b) a nap; c) not to be wearing heels of staggering vertiginousness.

Sometimes, doing something that feels just a little bit like bunking off Games is an excellent way to spend a Sunday.

4 comments:

Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open said...

One of the main reasons I head to best mate's French gaff every so often is so we can demolish entire platters of moules gratinere done to perfection at her local seafood restaurant, I never see it on menus over here - but it's one of my favourite things ever.

Blonde said...

PDEWYMO: YUM. TW and I had brilliant baked mussels in Vasto when we were in Italy recently (I can't remember the Italian for them). Definitely something to pounce on when it's available. God, people with homes in tasty places are useful, aren't they?

Lizzie Mabbott said...

I often have trouble finding people to do fun free TASTY things with and it always makes me feel like perhaps I should be making new, less busy friends!

Blonde said...

Lizzie: Oh thank god - I thought it was just me. I might just drop you an email the next time something delicious comes up...

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