D-Day. My unnatural anxiety over a suitable ensemble portents lunch through the looking glass. I engage the Hungarians expertise on my wardrobe. She is rude, but picks the little batik silk which had been my natural inclination. I'm dubious, but her years married to an Englishman gives her an unassailable edge. Emboldened, I add a funky Om amulet, opened toed high heels, goth lips and mascara. Alice is ready to wonder.... and lord, she did!!
A languid stroll past the sunny side of the American embassy,an espresso with clotted cream (?!!), and then, we're ready for the ladies that lunch. We walk in and I'm already doing an even better imitation of a sore thumb than I did at the Pathare Prabhu hall inauguration. 'Oh, you glamour puss...'. Meoowwwr. English 1 - Foreigners 0. The flower child is the only one genuinely pleased to see me. Green and pink drinks amplified by flora and fauna reflects in the looking glass...and I'm sucked into a world I've only heard about. Square peg, round hole. My fake smile wilting under the cooing, as pressies are opened and fawned upon. Thankfully, a call to the table...and I make sure I'm flanked by the rude Eastern European.
Their first tasting menu, punctuated by appalling wine. Memories of drinking coffee as a placebo for unpalatable tea rush unbidden to my mind as I quaff the red instead. Potentially interesting individually, but stereotypically English as a collective. The uninspired food causes much ooohing and aaaahing even as the cherubic sommelier with the tight blond curls brings on a second bottle of white and our waiter vies for our attention with a, 'Ok, guys...'. Ok. I hold up valiantly in the face of the banal conversation, forgetting to trade nasty remarks in hushed undertones, when my mouth meets the squid risotto. Clearly, Gordon's only claim to fame. Grilled, magically flavoured and chopped into pretend risotto. I want to wax lyrical, but my audience doesn't seem to be nearly as enraptured as I am. Euphoria turns to Coronation street with the arrival of the 'rack' of lamb. It is a chop, coupled with Shepard's pie as a side. Even trading plates with Csikos doesn't make it taste any better, and I dedicate myself to the Shepard's pie.
The accents get commoner, the references more alien, and I flounder in the unfamiliar, the urge to escape mounting. Like a coach, the Hungarian promises me I only need to hold on for a little longer. Debate over dessert wines tapers off to gushing over the cheese, before disintegrating into offering to swap smelly plates. Flower girls' unexpected anecdote about pig injections (and I used to think the countryside was boring...!!) sweeps through like a mistral, and gasping laughter rings through the restaurant, nudging Sarolta's memory.... the opening scene of a 'D' grade French film, a woman with a book, her dog, a glance...... before smoothly moving to her rinsing off..... oh my! A husband who now looked at his dog with distrust mingled with jealousy. At his dog?? What about his wife????? The perfect counterpoint to what turned out to be a poem of fruit jelly, lemon curd, basil sorbet and lime granita, eliciting a standing ovation, despite the depraved imagery and an utterly unbecoming conversation about elderly ladies shopping for paté for their poodles....
We're elegantly tossed out of the dining room to sample petit fours in the lounge. A garage sale collection of tea things appear; fine, white, china cups; black, cast iron Japanese teapots; dull, ungainly silver milk jugs; random sugar bowl and the petit fours on what could've been the back of a huge rubber stamp. Chocolates, nuts that closely resemble the regurgitations of a seagull, and wobbly, Turkish delight disguised as silicone implants. I rather enjoy the impromptu tea party, and as talk turns to elections in India, I momentarily debate continuing onwards to Claridges for more drinks. The moment passes, and all too soon, we're gawping at the previously absent 'hunk' of a doorman, as he was alluded to (among other less ladylike sentiments), and I rather fondly take leave of the ladies with a sage, 'She's married not dead....'
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