I've never considered myself as much of a foodie, and certainly not worthy of being a restaurant critic. In fact, I'd say my train-wreck culinary creations and disrespect for sensible portions should excuse me from casting a critical eye. However, having recently spent 110 quid just on myself at dinner (and that's before tip and alcohol), I think I have earned the right to give an opinion. The meal in question was a friend's birthday at the exclusive chef's table at Gaddi's, a upmarket and well-renowned French restaurant within the Peninsula Hotel that's been dishing up gastronomic extravagance for over 50 years. The main dining area offered a window-less oldie-wordie grandeur. Portraits of old colonial trailblazer types were scattered across the walls - the types that probably would have baulked at the sight of me in there - and an ambience perfect for the 60-year old executive from Surrey courting his 25-year old local mistress. But I had to respect the fact that I was in Gaddi's so I got excited, as requested. The four of us downed champagne in the reception area as we waited for our table, and I tried to ignore the fact that I could hear the clock ticking on the wall. To be honest, there probably wasn't even a clock there, but everything seemed to be so hushed, civilised and slow, and a little more subdued than my visits to Ebeneezer's kebab shop at four in the morning.
Before we and the bubbles could lower the tone too far, we were escorted to our table in the kitchen area and from there we were taken on a tour. Unfortunately, my hopes of seeing little fellas manically effing and blinding in different dialects were soon destroyed by the "Please Work Quietly" signs posted around the work areas. There were no chickens hanging from makeshift pulleys, no heavy cleavers smashing chunks of meat into workbenches and I scanned every inch of floor for the cockroach that would have earned me a free meal, but was out of luck. The various kitchens for meat, desserts, cheese, whatever, were immaculate. Our hosts then sat us down and introduced us to various blokes in white coats and hats preparing our special menu. I was too busy getting my money's worth of bread to catch their names. During the course of the meal our waiter would periodically return to talk us through each of the five courses as they arrived, the likes of which you will never find in my fridge - langoustine carpaccio with saffron jelly (nice colours - I remember that much); black perigord truffle, goose liver and smoked bacon pithiviers (or meat pie as we say in South London); veal prepared in three ways (I thought you could only fry it, but apparently not); sea bass fillet with crayfish (errrr, fish with more fish) etc etc. By the time the white chocolate cannelloni with passionfruit, mango and champagne soup came at the end (sweet in the literal and vernacular sense), I was royally stuffed. Even our decision to play `the cheapest wine on the menu' card couldn't spoil the experience. Fantastic food. So that's what 110 quid (plus tip and alcohol) tastes like. My pocket, though, wants to take a rain check on the "see you soon" comment made by the waiter at the end of our evening.
In the real world - as in my London existence - I couldn't ever imagine myself dipping into my pocket for such a venue. But in this world it seems easy to bounce between the extremes as part of your social being. In the same night you find yourself dining at a quality eatery, you may follow this up by hanging out in the same pretentious haunts as all the models, and cap the night off at the bottom of the barrel. Wan Chai is the home to many barrels. It doesn't pride itself in sophistication, unless `HK$300 to drink as much as you can until midnight' counts as sophistication. I've heavily cut the place out of my diet but once in a while I end up there. And it's the sort of place you also find yourself having an odder level of conversation, far from the civility of the Gaddi's of this world. Out at one of these dives a few weeks back, circa 3am, I found myself chatting to a random 40-something year-old drunk expat from Bedford. Now, once in a while a conversation starts and you know exactly the angle it's coming from and where it's heading to. No harm is intended (or done for that matter), if somewhat tiresome at times, but there's a predictability about the patter. It starts with the friendly nod and then the handshake. That handshake. That `street' handshake. And you know what's coming next.
Him: "How you doing, brother?"
(Hmmm, you don't look like my brother. But let's not nitpick.) Me: "I'm fine. How are you?"
Him: "Cool man - it's a bit packed in here tonight"
(No, you can do better than that). Me: "Yep."
Him: "You know what?"
(I can hear it coming) Me: "What?"
Him: "I used to know this guy from Barbados..."
(That's better...!!)
Him: "Great guy. Do you want to know what he said to me once?"
(Not in the slightest, but I'm sure you'll tell me)
Him: "I'm gonna tell you. He said, `Bob, mon, you is black really. Da way you move. Da way you is'. And you know what? That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."
(And with the quaint accent as well... How lovely for you and, of course, for me... Okay, and now you're bear hugging me, David Brent... Yes,yes, pat, pat, pat on my back...very nice... Can this sink any lower?)
Him: "And you know those sexy black women....that Beyonce...those massive..."
(O please...please don't....)
At this point he may as well have been speaking in dots and dashes because I couldn't understand a bit of it. What I do recall of the 20 minute ramble was that he'd left the UK when he was 17 years old, he'd been all over the world, met women from all over the world etc etc. Before we parted company - and before a parting street handshake - he put one hand on my shoulder and whispered to me: "Any trouble, brother, I've got your back." How...sweet... See, you don't get that kind of service in Gaddi's.
