Having already booked a table, I stroll past the snaking queue for the buffet rather smugly and am soon seated at Payards, wondering why there are still tables empty at 1pm. I unfurl the crisp linen napkin with a sigh of pleasure, which turns into a moan of longing as a basket of freshly baked baguette (French rendition) is set before me with a pat of butter (American rendition) - marriage made in heaven. The shrimp remoulade arrives looking too pretty to eat, but I'm a ruthless woman. As is typical, the sheer size of the shrimp guarantees it won't be sweet, but the sauce has just the right bit of kick to make that irrelevant and I enjoy every morsel. The service is attentive without being cloying and they remember to top up my glass with un-iced water, and I'm baffled at the desire of the general populace to grace the buffet bus stop instead. Next, is the seared sea bass on a bed of ratatouille, a triumph as I moan into the best ratatouille I have had in a very, very long time. A triumph that makes me forget the small print on the menu. But the accented waiter won't let me forget and hands me the only unsophisticated piece of my meal so far. A dessert menu with brightly coloured photos of the chef's selection. My natural inclination is for the Tiramisu, but the chocolate mousse also beckons and I leave it to him to end this for me. A classic mousse interrupted by caramelised peanuts. Distinctly unattractive to the ear, but manna in the mouth! All this for the Caeserly sum of $21 (and this doesn't even include the $1 the waiter throws in when I inform him of my intention to torture him by asking him to split my bill between my card and every last cent of my loose change). I feel like I've just perpetrated a crime and rue the fact that they're closed for dinner.
My post coital, ooops, luncheon indulgence is a ninety minute abandonment to the spa. I'm greeted and shown around the facilities and politely told that I'm not allowed any phones or cameras as this is a clothing optional spa. Ah. Good thing, given that the clothing had completely eluded me and I had rocked up without anything but optional. I eschew the pools for iced tea in a softly comfortable sofa. As my time draws closer, I'm escorted to a holding area, heated, tiled sunken seating where we're all reminded of the clothing optional choice as soon I'm the only woman among five men. Before I'm left feeling like a fifth wheel, Aaron comes to fetch me and guides me to the treatment rooms, a part of the spa I hadn't seen earlier and I try not to grin as we walk the length of an apartment block to get to Room M (yes, they begin at A, and M isn't the end).
Safely ensconced in M, Aaron leaves me instructions to change into the spa bikini and I'm taken aback to see 2 plastic packets. Top and bottom. Hello? I have to wear a bra? Aaron tells me I do, oblivious to the irony of being in the city of titty shows and having to cover my boobs in a clothing optional spa in the privacy of my own M room. Needless to say, the bra seems to share my sentiment, and does precious little to cover my boobs every time I move an arm. I feel like I've entered a start trek audition as he smears me detoxing mud type thingy around my shining, moving, virtually alive bikini and soon agrees with me that it's more than just a tad pointless. The audition goes up a notch as he picks up a fat roll of cling film and starts wrapping me up. I feel a close kinship with Seven of Nine, warring between feeling cool, laughing at how nerdy I am, and rather enjoying the saran wrap! There's enough cellophane around me to wrap lunches for the entire World Cup round robin players and my audition morphs into a shoot as I'm ushered to the table and horizontalised, waiting to be ministered by the good doctor. Trekkie turns to sap as my head, neck and shoulders are being manhandled. Soon enough, it's time for surgery and I'm de-mummified by a pair of nail scissors. I feel oddly bereft, but all that is soon forgotten as the dear boy flattens his palms on my spine drawing it up, arching my back in a freakishly unexpected move. Oh my! The next fifty minutes are confined to little moans and the occasional groan and it takes me a full seven minutes to crawl off the table and into my robe. My complaisant surrender is evident as I trade sleepy smiles with the other women in the locker room. Veni, vidi, vici.
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