Thursday 1 October 2009

Break Fast at The Wolseley


On Monday, I extended my nightly fast to 8pm in the evening. I am not sure why. Something to do with superstition and not wanting to break a sequence. If this blog lasts long enough, then you might hear some more on this.

I am told that the only place to break the fast in London is The Wolseley so with the opportunity to get the year off to a perfect start, I accepted the challenge and booked for two. With a slight delay and a great parking spot (my girlfriend is a trend-setter - she argues that people only park where other people park for fear of getting tickets - I call them petrolherds), we took our seats at this great London dining institution. I should probably confess that I have some pre-existing bias. I love it there. Which of course makes any positive comment I have irrelevant, and any criticism deep, powerful and lasting. Or perhaps I overstate my influence. Anyway, back to the restaurant. And how much I love it there. The room is a winner. You can be sitting next to the toilets, as we were, and still be sitting at a great table. The buzz in the dining room is…a buzz. I am never sure what people refer to when they speak of atmosphere you can cut with a knife, or roll with a rolling pin, or shape into small balls then blow through a straw. You get the feeling you are in the place where the locals in the know eat. There are sous waiters, and waiters, and junior managers, and managers, and senior managers, all designated and ordered by various forms of cloth and neckwear and accoutrements. I even think that I spotted the owner walking around with a yellow tie made of a richer silk mix than that of his senior managers. But back once again to the restaurant. I am determined to not let my unflinching love for this place flinch.

For starter, we ordered chicken soup and dumplings (for me) and a chopped salad (for her) – here we received special dispensation. They kindly agreed to chop the salad especially as only the non-chopped salad was available on the menu. The soup, served direct from its’ bronze saucepan, was too concentrated for a consommé but I do acknowledge that serving a Jew chicken soup and asking him to not find fault is akin to asking him how he is and receiving the answer you seek. The chef punished us for moving off menu by putting too much mustard in the dressing on the salad. By this point, our shrunken and atoned stomachs were already nearly satisfied but before we had time to consider this too much, my wiener schnitzel and her burger arrived. I was delighted. It was as good as you would find in Vienna. Probably better. That is what the Wolseley do. They take specialities from all over the world and make them better than they do in their homeland. And serve them on beautiful plates, with lovely silver cutlery. And deliver them to you using sharp-suited, well-humoured waiters. And you are too intoxicated by the splendour of it all to notice that the burger wasn’t cooked medium as asked for, or the chips are a little dry (and nowhere near as good as in The Bull & Last – by decree of my girlfriend, the best chips in London), or it takes a while to get the bill because your waiter is charming the table next to you.

But I forget all of this, because I can’t get away from the fact that I love it there. 

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