Tripping along Soho, across Soho Square, down Greek Street, shoes not quite slipping on well-worn pavements, a few longish looks from nice young men and nice older men, I am happy, indeed I am content. For I am to lunch and it is 11:50, I have been up since 7, have not yet eaten and, well, I am anticipatory Soho is an odd place. For ages I never visited, thinking it full of horror, a poor reflection of its previous incarnation. I was not wrong, but I imagine Soho’s felt like this since the first Italian deli or bordello closed. Wiser now I’ve found its bits of pleasure, as have most of my friends — which is Soho’s greatest charm, bumping into people. Only on the Kingsland Road do I see more people I know, though there I’m more likely to cross the traffic-befuddled road in escape. In a large, unwieldy city where anything approaching neighbourhood has been eradicated by poor tenant rights and exorbitant rent, this is no small thing. Lunch is a meeting at L’Escargot, a venerable establishment where they claim the first snails were served in London. The hostess is piqued that it is 11:55 rather than 12:00, when the restaurant opens, and asks the maître d if it would be okay for me to be seated. Not very chic. I am seated after a little back and forth, a full two minutes before curtain up. But I soon forget, for the hushed and expert movement of a well-run restaurant is making itself known through absence. The maître d will incline his head, a waiter will appear beside him, and he’ll murmur ‘we need more sparkling water in the fridge’. A nod and the command is enacted. The only disturbance is a walkie-talkie, beeping and emitting staticky and quick words, but even God has his mouthpieces. Such calm execution reminds me of watching trauma doctors at a casualty ward prepare for a stab victim’s imminent arrival — near silence, considered and slow movement, what could appear to be a dereliction of seriousness. ‘Hello sir, how are you today?!’ Such faux joviality and formality irritates me, irritates him too I think. At least he didn’t say how are we. But, have I not noticed the ugly plush seats, the padded table linen, the shocking brightness of the silverware? — one of the few good leftovers from before a 1990s redecoration, it is good Sheffield, of a proper vintage and weight. I have noticed, so what do I expect? I order a bottle of sparkling water, thinking I ought to wait for my host, though what I’d like is a martini. But I am polite. The host arrives and orders the wine — the waiter is solicitous, would you like this or if you want something more expensive we have… Another waiter brings the bottle, a third pours. How fun! The menu is designed for all the men — and one woman — here. One salad in the starters, one vegetarian in the mains, otherwise a neat parade of red meat and butter and fat and lobster. “It would be remiss to dine at L’Escargot and not get the snails.” I agree. And they come, snuggling in their silver dish beneath a buttery blanket. He is adept with the snail-holder and scoops his out like a clever monkey might — that is, skillfully — while I fumble, none seeming to fit. Oh nice little chewy snails. Ages ago I was having dinner at a friend’s farmhouse on the Dordogne, the noise of that storied river running through the kitchen. We had snails and too much to drink. Afterward, we played an odd game with the shells, smashing our palms onto them, cutting ourselves. Those not destroyed became ashtrays. The table was the corpse of a battle, quite scary in the morning. But back in London I think, as I always do eating snails, as everyone does, that gosh it is nice to have an excuse to eat quite so much bread dipped in garlic butter. Eating escargot is a way for the sophisticated person - ha! - to eat garlic bread. Of course, the ceremony of the shells, the vague discomfort of the texture, all these things elevate. As the fiddliness of artichokes do, and the strong scent of asparagus piss too. And then the dishes are whisked away, and a pause. The restaurant has filled up now. Men with rich paunches and expensive tailoring sit and chat. The table beside us are settling in for a real liquid lunch — halfway through a bottle of white, they have two carafes of red wine, breathing. Forward thinking. They are eating salads. One is bald and small and quite humorously ugly, the other is gigantic and fat, rolls of himself bobbing in contented excitement against the table. The only drink consumed today, aside from wine, is a beer — I assume — that I’ve not seen before, which arrives in shiny bottles, amber golden in the autumn sun. A few days later I find that it’s called NOAM, and after that it follows me around, popping up everywhere. It is, apparently, a LUXURY BEER, a designation that’s stupid and meaningless and obvious all at once. And then, ta-da! plates before us. His a steak, politely sized, obviously well cooked. Dull. Mine a steak too, but Tournedos Rossini — steak topped by foie gras and truffle. Rossini, my favourite composer of operas, was a well-known gourmand, a famous eater, whose appetite in wealth called for the finer things. Any dish bearing his name warns of foie gras and truffle. This is all sat on a hideous plate, a gold ring of 1990s poor taste. Which is when Marco Pierre White — the last I heard of him he was serving meat-free meat with parsley garnishes, over and over again — took over and refurbished the restaurant. Which keeps me thinking — what would it have looked like if left alone? Probably beautiful, regal, timeless. Now it’s awful and dated and ugly. Not the point. The dated ugliness is comforting and rich. As rich as the flesh before me, topped with the root that smells of. Well, you know. It is good. A good steak, a good piece of liver. But more than that it is sickening. I work my way through, each bite costing more than the living wage. I look around. The air swims. I have drunk too much red wine, having a large glass brought to me after finishing most of the bottle. My host is talking and talking. I’ve been making notes. There is grease on my notepad, on my chin. I take a piece of bread to act as ballast, mop. I do not finish the plate. The word ‘deliverables’ flashes again and again. When talking about Italian American cuisine — the insanity of a Milanese steak, for instance — I argue that its excesses are the excesses of peasants with the ability to add more. Because the austerity of 20th-century Italian cuisine — the good stuff, cooked by nonnas and chefs — is an austerity born of centuries of rural poverty, of using what one has to make a lot more. An Italian would not deep fry a steak with cheese and ham — a Milanese — because of some culinary sense, but because the cheese and the ham could make their own meals. It would be a waste. Haute cuisine, on the other hand, the sort popular everywhere, lacks this restraint because it is a cuisine born of the restaurant. More more more! it shrieks, pouring butter and cognac onto your plate, into your glass. Italian American food is what happens when peasants cook for themselves — haute cuisine is what happens when the rich are cooked for. It’s quite a lot of fun but the wrong sort of greed. Back into the street, drunkish, but in the safe embrace of Soho, of ordained and recognised revelling. I decide to pop to the French for a quiet half Guinness to sober myself up. A French baroness, the mother of a friend, once served me something similar to this as the beginning of a very simple — roast chicken, potatoes, juis — and completely perfect lunch. Salad Baronne A small red cabbage, about the size of two fists
Please share Greed with those you love & loathe. |