The name game.

So when, precisely did Sea Bass become Branzino? When exactly did the culinary curators decide that the two words, that to me (someone who has actually fished the Cornish Coast) decide the Sea Bass was an inadequate title?

Cut to my dinner just the other night at Cafe Cluny with Rachael. The snow was drizzling on the city, making New York look like the city it’s supposed to be (you know, films and pictures and all that jazz) the Village Mugger hadn’t attacked my dining guest, and my seat at the bar – as always – was stolen by a gaggle of gays… when, I ask you, did Sea Bass become Branzino? Because that’s what it said on the menu. And when I asked, I was told ‘it’s sea bass’. Hardly like revealing a certain jus was made from unicorn tears.

It’s much like living in Hell’s Kitchen. Somehow, some moron thought calling it Clinton (you know, dynasty in Whitehouse, much press on possible curruption, Hillary in democratic denial) would make the area ‘up and coming’.

It came up on it’s on. Much as the branzino did from Cafe Cluny.

The world needs more of this.

 

I don’t get out much. Which is remarkable given my so called scintillating career. It’s just not me. Since Rachael taught me to enter “liquor, liquor” as first and last name for the nearest wine store, the advent of Seamless Web and filtered water on tap, I just think in is the new out (kind of like belly buttons where in will never go out of fashion).

So to be invited to a dinner party of 10 people at Cindy Gallop’s simply stunning living space was both exciting and terrifying.

Naturally having spent the day on the couch with stomach cramps (LONG story) I pulled it together at 6 and started the prep. The one thing the late and great Peter Estall taught me (he’s the man responsible for the very best light entertainment at the BBC in the 80’s and beyond – and a mentor to me) was to never cancel on a woman, and least of all on a meal. So  having reassured Cindy that come hell or heart-attack I’d be there, I dipped into yet another bath and prepped.

Look, let’s face it, I’m shit on my own. I can’t choose a THING to wear, I need back-up. I nearly called Ratchat, Ben, Mom even Tim Gunn, but I couldn’t be seen to fail; so I literally spent 40 minutes trying on a variety of pants, shirts, ties and even Henley style shorts (what WAS I thinking) and finally ended up looking just the wrong side of interesting.

Maybe like a graduate entertainment lawyer. Although someone did as me if I was a writer at dinner (NOT the look, but impressive none the less).

The journey was quite something. Straight to the local liquor store to buy the biggest bottle of Grey Goose (made with real geese) and into a taxi, via a pot hole in the road the depth of Wookey Hole. My pants (that’s trousers) were soaked, well just on the one leg. What can you do? You do British, and ignore it.

To Cindy’s to the loo to freshen up and work out how to dry my leg and then to the seating area.

I’m not going to go on about her place – Google it or go to www.cindygallop.com – anyway it was designed by Bacchus and the god of Soft-Porn. It’s a total entertainment, living and loving space. She is also, truly, the ultimate Martini maker – delivered in some almost witch-craft looking flask to crisp Gucci glasses. The conversation is warm enough to dry my leg and soon we take to dinner.

William, as ever (well it’s the second time I’ve seen it but I’m assured he does this far too often) has mostly catered, and as we sup from a wine called ‘Bitch’ the stories unfold over a memorable Cottage/Shepherds pie (I always confuse the two).

What made tonight captivating to me was there was none of that ‘where do you work, what do you do  and long chats about the vagueries of marketing. Instead we talked about people, fun, love and past-times and the whole thing was totally cathartic.

Long may it reign – and I hope I’ve done enough to make some new friends as every single one around the table was nothing other than impressive, passionate and captivating.

A world without Cheese.

So just back from dinner with B and B at the Odeon. Apart from Ben’s 30 minute rendition (play by play) of the roller-derby, the meal was spanking good. In fact, the tuna was cooked to perfection – just as I had requested – and I had requested ‘however you think it should be done’ as I’m not used to asking how my fish should be cooked. Ask me if my goose is cooked and I’ll tell you, but fish? That’s just not cricket.

 

So, we eat, we chat we ‘do’ grappa and then we dessert. Well at least B and B do. Upon asking for a cheese plate by a waiter we presume was called Todd (no reason, he just looked like a Todd) we were told ‘we don’t do cheese plates, it’s just not on the menu’.

 

Holy moly. So they can offer 3 types of cheese on a cheeseburger but not 3, or even British Airways style, 2 types of cheese and a bloody water biscuit? 

 

It’s not like I’m asking for unicorn tears; I’m asking for what is proper and normal. And yet the Odeon can’t bring me this passed your eyes delight. So passed my eyes it’s clearly in the next sodding restaurant.

 

Shame on you Odeon, with you lovely meal and your fabulous grappa  - is a little cheese too much to ask?

Dinner with Tony

I thought you might like to know that in 90 minutes I board a flight to Washington D.C. for dinner with Tony Blair. More later.