The Destiny of Nathalie X

Lunch

DATE: Monday

VENUE: Le Truc Intéressant, Lexington Street, Soho

PRESENT: Me, Gerald Vere, Melanie Swartz, Peter (Somebody) from Svenska Bank, Barry Freeman, Diane Skinner (account exec from SLL&L), Eddie Kroll (left before pudding)

MEAL: Tabbouleh chinois, roulade de foie de veau farcie, mille-feuilles de fruits d’hiver

WINE: Two Moët & Chandon nonvintage, two Sancerres, an ’83 Pichon-Longueville, a big Provençal red called Mas Julienne. Port, brandy (eau de vie de prune for Diane S.).

BILL: £678 (service not included)

EXTRAS: Romeo y Julietas for Vere and Freeman; T-shirt and souvenir condiments set for Melanie; a packet of Marlboro Lights for Diane S.

COMMENTS: NO piped music. Tabbouleh chinois an orthodox tabbouleh with sliced lychees mixed in. Unusual. Roulade de foie exquisite, served on a little purée of celeriac. Diane S. barely touched her food, “saving up for dessert.” Mille-feuilles—8 out of 10 for the pastry. Fruits bland. Diane S. picked up tab. Taxied me back too. Thank you Swabold, Lang, Laing & Longmuir. Thank you very much.

DATE: Tuesday

VENUE: Eurotel Palace, Heathrow Airport

PRESENT: Me, Diane S.

MEAL: Insalata tricolore, Dover sole, tarte aux pommes

WINE: G&T in bar, Merry Dale Chardonnay, house champagne with pud

BILL: £96 (service included)

EXTRAS: Irish coffee served in our room. £5.50 each. 20 Marlboro Lights.

COMMENTS. Almost inaudible classical Muzak. Rubbery mozzarella. When will the British stop serving “A selection of vegetables”? Tasteless carrots, watery broccoli, some kind of swede. Tarte aux pommes a simple apple pie, not flattered by translation. House champagne surprisingly good — small bubbles, buttery, cidery. Undrunk Irish coffee — waste.

DATE: Wednesday

VENUE: Chairman’s dining “set,” sixth floor. Pale oak paneling. Silver. Good paintings — a small perfect Sutherland, Alan Reynolds, two Craxtons.

PRESENT: Me, Sir Torquil, Gerald Vere, Barry Freeman, Blake Ginsberg (new CEO), some senior suit from Finance (introduced as “You know Lucy”—can’t be his first name, surely? Very foreign-looking)

MEAL: Vegetable terrine, lamb chops with new potatoes, raspberries with crème fraîche. Stilton.

WINE: Hip flask in loo downstairs, then Vodkatini (could have been colder), a perfectly good Chablis, followed by a ’78 Domaine de Chevalier (stunning). Port (Taylor’s, missed date).

BILL: A heavy price to pay

EXTRAS: At least I saw the Sutherland.

COMMENTS: Apart from the vegetable terrine (always a total waste of time) this was superior corporate catering. Sensible. Lamb nicely pink. Superb wine. They had the grace to wait until the cheese. The condemned man had eaten a hearty meal. Fucking heartless cold fucking swine.

DATE: Thursday

VENUE: La Casa del’ Luigi, Fulham Road

PRESENT: Me, Diane, (later) Jennifer

MEAL: Minestrone, spaghetti bolognese, tiramisù

WINE: G&Ts, Valpolicella, replaced by a Chianti Classico when spilled. Large grappa after Jennifer’s arrival and departure.

BILL: £63 rounded up to £80. Scant gratitude.

EXTRAS: 20 Marlboro Lights. Three glasses, two plates. Dry cleaning to be notified.

COMMENTS: Minestrone was tinned, I’d swear. Alfredo’s spag. bol. amazingly authentic as ever (why can’t one ever achieve this at home?). He refuses to divulge his secret but I’m convinced it’s the chicken livers in the ragu. Which must simmer for days, also. Watery, ancient tiramisù. Big mistake to eat so close to home. HUGE mistake. Jennifer could have walked right past. What bastard waiter called her in?

DATE: Friday

VENUE: Montrose Dining Club, Lincoln’s Inn. Basement, large overlit room, long central table. Staffed by very old ex-college porters and very young monoglot girls who appear to be from Eastern Europe.

PRESENT: Me, Alisdair Lockhart

MEAL: Potted shrimps and toast, duck à l’orange, treacle tart (!)

WINE: G&Ts, club claret, club brandy

BILL: £18. (I paid. Astonishing value. Alisdair said he could add it to his bill but I insisted.)

EXTRAS: About £5000 if I know Alisdair

COMMENTS: Time travel. Back to school. This was English cuisine until quite recently; we have forgotten that this was how we all used to eat. Potted shrimps like consuming cold butter, limp toast. Duck cooked to extinction, repulsive cloying sauce. I ordered treacle tart for nostalgia’s sake. (Alisdair has appalling dandruff for a comparatively young man.) I said Jennifer was being difficult, thus far. He was not sanguine. Asked if this had happened before so I told him of Jennifer’s ultimatum. Spoke briefly about custody of Toby. He left early as he had to get to court. Depressing. Drank whiskey in an Irish pub.

DATE: Saturday

PLACE: My kitchen, Rostrevor Road, Fulham

PRESENT: Me and (intermittently) Birgitte, the au pair

MEAL: Raided fridge — cottage cheese and crispbread, remains of Thursday’s shepherd’s pie, some of Toby’s little yogurt things, cheese triangles. Birgitte sent out for a pizza but I couldn’t be bothered waiting.

WINE: “Three goes of gin, a lemon slice and a ten-ounce tonic …” Who said that? Then two glasses of Pinot Grigio, before I went down to the basement and rooted out the Ducru-Beaucaillou. Fuck it. I gave some to Birgitte, who made a face. She preferred to drink her own beer. She gave me a can when I’d finished the Beaucaillou. Strong stuff. Slept in the afternoon.

BILL: The Human Condition

EXTRAS: I miss Toby and Jennifer. I miss our usual Saturday lunch. Best lunch of the week.

COMMENTS: Music — Brahms horn trio initially but it made me want to weep. Birgitte played something rhythmic, ethnic. She gave me a tape of ocean waves breaking on a shore. “For calming,” she said. Big, bighearted girl. Why would anybody eat cottage cheese? What, in terms of taste and texture, could possibly recommend it? Jennifer and her silly, perpetual diets. Perfectly slim, perfectly … The cheese triangles were unbelievably tasty, ate a whole wheel’s worth as I drank the Beaucaillou.

DATE: Sunday. Cold, low, packed clouds, a flat, sullen light.

VENUE: Somewhere in eastern England on the 11:45 to Norwich. Writing this in the bar. On my way to Mother and Sunday lunch.

PRESENT: Me, three soldiers, a fat woman, and a thin weaselly man with a mobile phone

MEAL: Started with a Jimmyburger on the station concourse, then a couple of Scotch eggs in the bar. On the train I had a bag of salt-’n’-vinegar crisps and an egg-and-cress sandwich from the steward with the trolley. In the buffet thus far I have had a pork pie, a sausage roll, something called a “Ploughman’s Bap” and a Mars bar. There is a solitary mushroom-and-salami omelette wrapped in cellophane that they will do in a microwave. Why am I still hungry?

WINE: Large vodka and orange in the station bar — vague, very temporary desire to keep my breath alcohol-free. Two cans of gin and Italian vermouth in the train before I wandered buffetward. Started drinking lager: “Speyhawk Special Strength.” Notice the squaddies are drinking the same. They do quarter bottles of wine in here, I see. I’ve now bought a couple, having ordered the omelette. It is labeled “Red Wine.” No country of origin. Tart, pungent, raw. I worry it will stain my lips. Mother will serve, as usual, Moselle and call it hock.

EXTRAS: A lot of cigarette smoke, everyone is smoking including, covertly, the steward behind the bar. Smoke seeps between the fingers of his loosely clenched fist resting on his buttocks. The fat woman is smoking. The man on the mobile phone is smoking as he mutters into his little plastic box. I have a metallic taste in my mouth, and am seized by a sudden, embittering image of Diane S. — naked, laughing.

COMMENTS: The English countryside has never looked so drained and dead under this oppressive pewter sky. The barman beckons … Now I have my mushroom-and-salami omelette, a piebald yellow with brown patches, steaming suspiciously, a curious, gamey but undeniably foodlike smell seems suddenly to have pervaded the entire carriage, obliterating all other odors. Everyone is looking at me. I screw the top off my “Red Wine” and fill my glass as we hurtle across Norfolk. Gastric juices squirt. I’m starving, how is this possible? My mother will have the archetype of an English Sunday lunch waiting for me. A roast, cooked gray, potatoes and two or three vegetables, a lake of gravy, cheese and biscuits, her special trifle. I look out the window at the miles of somber green. Rain is spitting on the glass and the soldiers have started to sing. Time for my omelette. I know what I am doing but it is a bad sign, this, the beginning of the end. I am deliberately setting out to ruin (because, let’s face it, you cannot, before lunch, lunch) lunch.