"Would sir and madame care for an aperitif?" asked the pretty French woman as she seated us.
And with that I fell in love, not with the pretty French woman, but with Claridges. I also had to resist the urge to tell her there was nothing wrong with my teeth and was there any chance of a drink. But Belfast jokes needed to be left in Belfast.
As we waited for our drinks we scanned the room for celebrities, I know I know but I'm shallow that way. There were no celebrities. We ooh and aaah'd at the majesty of the dining room. The subtle lighting and hushed voices of the many waiters, managers, and others made the place feel calm and relaxed. There was plenty of laughter around us, not at us I should add, and my worries about Claridges being stuffy were soon dissolved.
We spent the first twenty minutes simply pointing out features, such as the detail on the lights, the crushed velvet, the art deco features, and the quality of the uniforms and so on, to each other rather than chatting. This spell of awesome wonder was only only broken when the waiter came to take our order. We opted for the a la carte menu over the tasting menu as neither of us are fond of fois gras. LMM went for the seared beef to start followed by the belly pork and finishing with the chocolate fondant. I ordered the lobster and salmon ravioli with the John Dory for my main and the assiette of rhubarb; crumble, syllabub and mille feuille.
LMM kicked me under the table as we started our pre-starter course of cold pea and creme fraiche soup. I immediately assumed I was doing something wrong and just froze. But my elbows weren't on the table and my fly was up (standard Manuel issues). But as I looked at her to see what was wrong it became very apparent why she had bruised my shin. For there on the other damn side of the restaurant looking mean and as if somebody was just about to get it, in a Glasgow stylie, stood one Mr Gordon Ramsay. We both giggled like school girls. After that it was a race to get to the toilet first to text this fantastic news to everyone in our phonebooks. I never saw him leave so I choose to believe he cooked my dinner and if anyone contradicts me I'll hunt them down and force them to take it back!
At no point did I feel out of place. I was never worried about being outed for a
working Joe. I'm not saying the rest of the guests don't work hard for a living but I'm sure they don't get their hands very dirty whilst doing it, well probably more metaphorically than actually dirty. Plus I was rather dapper and LMM simply stole the show.
But I did squirm a little when the sommelier handed me the wine list. "List" doesn't really do it justice. It was more a telephone book with only the names and addresses changed, the numbers remained pretty much the same. There was a very definite touching cloth moment. I was well out of my depth and the big French fella knew it. I opted for a £30 bottle of the 2006 GrünerVeltliner. Now where I work if you order a bottle of wine for £30 you are treated like royalty, other people get moved to ensure that they aren't allowed to dirty your air, we have even been known to crack open a new box of glasses for them! But buying a £30 bottle in Claridges is about as impressive as driving round in a top of the range Ford when everybody else is in Porches. So shit, it was damn tasty, as they probably don't say in France.
Food came and went. Each course served with a flurry of waiters each with their own part to play in the ritual. Some just carry, never speaking a word. Some don't carry, instead they announce and serve. Then there were others to fold your napkin and more again to ensure that at no point did you have to suffer the indignity of being without a half full glass at all times. There was another for water and yet another to scrape the crumbs from our table with the precision of a barber with a razor. But here's the genius of it, at no point did the service ever feel fussy or overbearing. It felt light and was performed with a deftness of touch that makes what I do feel clumsy and oafish. Cunts.
These were a-list waiters, the best, they have probably never said no to a guest in their lives. But it's horses for courses and all that. They were truly a joy to watch. The effortlessness with which they moved and the way they make you feel relaxed, sommelier aside and if I'm being honest I would be exactly like him if I was in his perfectly polished shoes, was inspiring.
The food was exceptional, as I expected it would be but it was the service and the way they make you feel so relaxed that truly made the night. We laughed and loved as if we were at home on the sofa watching TV. We forgot about the super rich around us. It was just LMM and I........and our 8 waiters of course. The evening seemed to whirl by. And by the end of the night we seemed to have forgotten we were in Claridges.
Then the bill came and I was reminded, very sharply, that I was in Claridges......
I phoned 11 restaurants looking for a table for two at 8pm on Saturday night.
