London...

London eh....

I really didn't think I would enjoy it as much as I did.

But it was tremendous.

Here's your Well Done Fillet Guide to London
(with pictures)

Hotel: We were booked into Base2Stay near the Earls Court road in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea (Oooooooh fancy). The whole area surrounding the hotel is like a giant car park for Range Rovers, Porches, and Bentleys. It was superb and considering it was so cheap, £320 for three nights, I was doubly impressed. It's an Apart-hotel meaning there is no bar or kitchen but you get a kitchenette. My first flat had a kitchenette and a very odd man living next door but that's where the comparisons end. The rooms were stunning, airy, bright and very well maintained. If you need somewhere to stay in London free from snippy staff, bad buffet breakfasts, damp, 1970's decor then Base2Stay is the jobby for you. It's very close to a tube station so it's just perfect.

Base2Stay

Tour: The highlight of the tour wasn't Downing Street or St Paul's Cathedral or even the London Eye but rather it was when the guy with tourettes got on. At first I thought he just didn't like London, "BOLLOCKS BOLLOCKS BOLLOCKS" he shouted as we passed the London Eye. Big wheels aren't for everyone I thought. And when we passed the Houses of Parliament he was even more forceful when he cried, "CUNTS". Nobody disagreed and he carried on conversing with his friend. It did get a bit tiring after a while though and I got really cheesed off when LMM wouldn't let me join in.

That's me at St Paul's Cathedral
they were looking a tenner in.
Arse to that....

Me and Big Ben
(and big tum)

Me on a bus
how delightful!

Things to do: One of the highlights of the trip for me was going to Tate Modern. You could very easily spend days walking through the building and still not see it all. Unfortunately we didn't have time for that. So we took in the Duchamp, Man Ray, Picabia exhibition which for a chap like me was delightfully bewildering. Tate is totally worth the suggested donation fee of £3.00 and paying into the big exhibitions is also worth the cash especially if you can explain it all to me. The food there is excellent. The Science Museum was recommended by numerous people including uber geek Toast. And how right he was. It was great fun. It's like a huge great big toy box and it's free! Free, what a great word!

modern Manuel
why is he smiling?
why?

Modern mackerel with potato salad and garlic toast
freaking loverly......

manuel always had a thing for big women...
oh quit your "moan"ing....

I had a bit of a tan by this point

We also did quite a bit of shopping, Harrods etc. It was more craic watching others shop than actually shopping ourselves. I mean people who spend hundreds if not thousands on handbags and jumpers need to be watched. Watched and ridiculed. My intention had been to buy lots of records but that just didn't happen. I got two which was a serious disappointment. But I did buy two pairs of shoes. Which was odd. I have now doubled my shoe collection. Do four pairs of shoes count as a collection? Does it matter? I doubt it.

We did other things. Things like walking, lots of fucking walking. Too much walking. Oh how I hated the walking. And we ate, mainly at Wagamama and Cafe Nero and at EAT. London was and is great. The people were fantastic, helpful, and friendly except for one bus driver who was a right fucking grump. On to Paris now in the Autumn......

LMM and Manuel
ahhhhh look at our big heads.....

Claridges...

So Claridges then, what can I say?

I mean it was all I expected it to be and more.

So don't consider this a review,

it's more of an impostors view of life on the other side.....

the £10.00 Gin and tonic
another one?
oh no I don't think so....
I have rent to pay

"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......

Menu...

Claridges tonight. Did I mention that already? It's the whole point of the London trip. I rarely looked at the menu in the run up to the trip except on days when I had the blues or something. Nothing like Pacific braised halibut to chase away the wobbles.

Huh no tacos, who would have thought it?

click it and lick it...

Guess what I'm gonna order tonight and the closest wins a badge set.

Yippee.....

I'll be off then...

Think of it like a 3 and a half day smoke break, mmmmmmm 3 and a half day smoke break. And like any waiter on a smoke break someone else will be covering my tables whilst I'm away so you shouldn't notice any loss of service or love. That is to say there are jobbys scheduled to automatically post over the next few days.

I'm so excited I could pee, about going to London that is not about the posts I have planned. Although there is nothing wrong with them.

I'm babbling now.

Ta ta for now.....

Newbies...

We are off to London in exactly two weeks.

Which is nice for us and for the good people of Old London town,
obviously.

I am officially getting excited about the trip..........

......nnnnnnnnnnnnow.

It has to be better than my last trip. The first day will probably be spent sleeping. LMM is running the Belfast marathon the day before and I have a 12 hour bank holiday shift. With our flight leaving at 7am or something equally preposterous their could be swearing as well as sleeping.

The only thing we have planned is dinner at Gordon Ramsay's Claridges restaurant, oh well if I must. I also want to go to Tate Modern and pretend to understand the significance of it all. My only other plan is record shopping. I've cleared half a room for my intended purchases. I'm not joking either.

But as much as I'd like to lose myself in a world of 12 inches, 7 inches, long players (MJ you can insert obvious joke here) and associated products for four days I cant see LMM going for it. I've tried to read the many many guide books but I find them a chore. So if anyone can recommend good places to eat, drink, visit, look at, etc then please do share.

In other news....
I've seen my visitor hits nearly double over the last week or so. I mean it's like I used to drive a Ford Focus and I was happy with it then somebody put me in a Ferrari....zooooooooom. Okay maybe not a Ferrari but a better Ford Focus, with a spoiler and go faster stripes. Now I know we aren't supposed to worry about our hits and all that, we blog for the love of it blah blah blah. But not me I need the hits, man, I need them bad. Every hit is a virtual hug, even the ones who got here by accident whilst trying to find out the latest news from the rural swinging scene. True story!

So if you have come here from Waiter Rant then welcome. Here are a few things you need to know (the rest of you can move along)...

As you all know, by now, my blog is called Well Done Fillet......that's well done FILLET (with two "l's"), pronounced FIL-LET not FIL-LAY. Now I know this will be difficult for you Americans out there but you really must try. Over here we pronounce it FIL-LET and you pronounce it FIL-LAY, but when you are in my house you will use the former. And another thing the superbly ugly fish Turbot is pronounced TUR-BIT not TUR-BO. Stop it, it really annoys me. Good grief even the French pronounce it TUR-BIT. Don't even get me started on risotto (it's OT-TO not OH-TO). For those of you who don't know I took my name Manuel from the much put upon waiter Manuel from the BBC TV show Fawlty Towers. In reality I am much more like Basil.

I see you out there, hundreds of you, thousands of you in the last week. You all clicked the link from Waiter's place and now you are here. Some of you stay for but a moment some stay for hours. But none of you say much.

Why so shy?

Why?

Why?

Not commenting is like not tipping. You wouldn't stiff this waiter would you?

Would you?

You can take the waiter out of the restaurant....

one of these kids
is doing his own thing....

London eh?

Bloody hell

What's that all about?

The day did not get off to a very good start. Actually that is an understatement of this mornings fuck up. My taxi, that was booked for 8.30am, arrived at.......wait for it.......wait for it.......9.03AM! Well you can imagine the swearing, the smoking, the kicking of random things that went on as I waited for it to arrive. The bastards offered nothing by way of explanation. I'll not be troubling Value Cabs again.

I arrived at the airport to find my three traveling companions, The Supreme Leader, The Supreme Bean Counter, and The Canadian all dressed in full executive combat gear. They looked like candidates on The Apprentice. I looked like an extra from a Saturday morning kids show. So I was late and dressed inappropriately. I looked good, don't get me wrong, but I probably should have bobbed my suit on. Arse. This wasn't a good start to the day. I tried a quick joke which obviously bombed as no one laughed or even remarked. I needed a smoke......

I never got a smoke.

I didn't get one when we landed as the train from Gatwick to Victoria was there when we arrived. I never got one when we arrived at Victoria as the bloody taxi rank was full of waiting cabs. Oh the irony. I never got one when we arrived at Ludgate House as we got there with about a minute to spare. I was eating fingers by this point, any ones fingers at that.

We were shown up to the 9th floor to a board room, the staging area. The views were unbelievable. To the left was the London Eye, ahead was St Paul's Cathedral, to the right Lord Fosters Gherkin thingy and behind that Canary Wharf. Despite what I had said previously it was hard to stay aloof and cool. Below us was Blackfriars Bridge were God's banker, "Roberto Calvi" was found hanged. This was all very very fucking cool. Not for the Calvi family I mean, but for me this was impressive stuff.

Then things went a bit tits up.

We had been pretty much alone in this room for about ten minutes when in strode more Pin Stripe Warriors. The room reeked of testosterone and aftershave. And there I was with jeans and a shirt nicely finished with a man bag. Blackfriars Bridge was looking like a good option. One of the organisers wandered over and there was lots of introductions and hand shakes, "I'm the MD and these are my senior managers and Manuel. He's a waiter."

EARTH SWALLOW ME NOW!!!

I was well out of my comfort zone. I was so far out of my comfort zone that I couldn't even remember where it was anymore. I stuck out like a drunk in church. I'm much more used to serving these types, not loitering with them and discussing golf handicaps. My insistence that the greatest golfing handicap were the jumpers didn't go down well either. The golfing conversation was started by some Alpha male with a really bad perm job. Seriously it looked like a Brillo Pad. He wandered over and I'm not making this up said...

"Well chaps, who plays the old golf then?" whilst simulating a golf stroke. I nearly had a stroke of my own. What a plum. I never realised that people like that really existed. He was inviting us all for a golfing weekend in Malaga. I said I would check my diary. The Canadian shot me a look.

The room began to fill with Chairmen and Managing Directors and Operation Managers and what have you. The only other waiters there were the ones that brought in the coffee. I tried to give them a look of solidarity but they didn't want to know.

At this point a rather hyper lady arrived with name badges for everyone. Each one bore your name, company and position. At this point people stopped talking to me. Which in many respects was a result. After more pissing about and wank chat with pin stripped people we were finally summoned for our interview.

The main interviewer was from CAMRA. CAMRA for those of you who don't know are the people who campaign for Real Ale and real ale drinkers. The very real ale drinkers I was slagging off on here a week or so ago. What are the fucking chances eh?

I said two things.

I nodded a lot. I looked interested. I tried to add a few points to the discussions. But in the end I said two things. Neither of which I'm sure went very far to securing us our award. But what the hell! It was over 6 hours since I had last smoked and it was all I could think about. Well that and a decent coffee.

We had time to kill after and we went for a wander about the area, past the Tate and the Globe Theatre, across the Millennium Bridge, over to St Paul's and then to Fleet Street for a pint. They walked and talked, I smoked.

By the time we got back on the plane I was shattered. As soon as the safety dealy was over I nestled in for a bit of a snooze power nap. I woke up after about ten minutes to find a trail of drool down the window. I didn't care any more. I just wanted to go home. I tried to stay awake but kept drifting off and doing that silent head banging thing you do when you are neither awake nor asleep.

It was fun, to a point, but I'll be glad to get back to my happy place tomorrow and I'll be looking down my nose at them and not the other way around........

p.s I'll be round the blogs tomorrow. I've got to eat.....and smoke...