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Salad days

Jeffrey Bernard

There's nothing that ruins a restaurant quite like a good write-up in the press. I wish to God that the likes of Fay Maschler would stick to Wimpy Bars or the Mirabelle and leave the middle of the road places I frequent alone. More and more I've found that when a restaurant has a blown-up photocopy of a good review pasted in the window, then they're usually past caring, resting on their laurels, full up and particularly patronishig if you're new to the place. The original Madam Poons in Lisle Street is a typical casualty of good publicity and that one time excellent Indo-Chinese restaurant, The Chanticleer in Meard Street, Soho, has I fear been given the kiss of death in the form of a recommendation by none other than that famous man about town, bon viveur and gourmet, Michael Parkinson.

And speaking of Chinese restaurants, what a funny lot they are. When I first started using them, about ten years ago, I never really believed that the Chinese hated us quite as much as I was told they did, but they do you know. Perhaps it's because most of the Gerrard Street mob are Maoists, but for whatever reason it is, I can strongly recommend the Dumpling Inn if you really savour and relish indifference for a starter followed by rudeness and then sheer aggressiveness. Perhaps it's because the Italians haven't got a clue about politics that they still serve food with good will and friendliness although, I have to admit. I'd hate to be anonymous in some of the Italian places I use.

Apart from the food itself which I like, the Italians are past masters at serving up great dollops of syncophancy. It's a light and crisp sycophancy and not the slimy kind you find in English hotels where you know damn well they're being nice to you when they take your order because the bailiff is actually in the kitchen at that very moment.

Anyway, the Italians aren't half as hys terical as they're made out to be and. you just couldn't imagine an Italian waiter being involved in the sort of bizarre incident that

took place in Saffron Walden of all places. It was there that a Chinese restaurant was

closed down because the guvnor chopped off a yob customer's hand. Yes, all that in Saffron Walden!

The two places I know where they're least likely to chop off any part of your anatomy are the Old Compton Street branch of Wheelers and I Paparazzi in Dean Street. Some of the old faces have gone from Wheelers now, but they're still the friendliest bunch of waiters and managers along with the Paparazzi in all London.

There again it's the business of not being anonymous that's a little over-important to

most of us. I find it a real struggle to drag myself along to a restaurant for the first time — certainly if Pm paying. It's out in the sticks that one has to take pot luck and it's somehow really enjoyable there.! only wish I'd had the experience of visiting the famous Fox and Goose at Fressingfield. By all accounts it combined the best food in England along with service reminiscent of Fawlty Towers. I'm told that the guvnor was one of those fanatics whose respect for his own grub made him a dictator.

The story goes that a group of four Americans visited the place one night and got stuck into the dry martinis while their order was being cooked. Dry martinis were bad enough in the eyes of the guvnor, but when the food was ready and they still wanted to go on drinking their cocktails, then he did his nut. Apparently he slammed down the next round of drinks, walked into the kitchen, came back with their order, showed it to them, opened the window and slung the lot outside. They went on drinking the martinis, quite oblivious of their appetites by now and the guvnor went on marching back and forth from the kitchen with the remainder of their courses — announcing them all in a very loud and manic voice — and then throwing them very deliberately out of the window.

Another thing about this Basil Fawltylike character was his hatred of swearing. It cost him dear. No one knew about it until the day a customer who'd had too much brandy asked for 'another cup of fucking coffee.' Basil was at his side with one bound, as they say, and tore up the man's bill before throwing him out. Word of the event got about, they say, and before you could say Sauce Remoulade the place was inundated with customers demanding 'another fucking brandy' and all of them having their bills torn up. I've often wondered what happened to that man and I suppose it's on the cards that he might have gone into partnership with a Chinese gentleman. Of course, in some ways, you can see his point about being a top notch chef and getting upset about customers committing grievous bodily harm on their taste buds with dry martinis, but if I want to drink red wine with fresh salmon then I will.

Mind you, not all Americans are like the martini swillers. Quite recently in Wheelers, I ordered some fried sole and chips and asked the waiter for a bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup. A party of Yanks at the next table almost walked out in disgust.

That's why the Paparazzi is my favourite at the moment. They seem to realise that it's

you that's paying and therefore you can

have what you want. If it's not on the menu they'll usually make it for you and please don't all start going there on my say-so. It's bad enough already with the odd food writer sitting smugly in a corner to say nothing of all those dreadful advertising people spilling pasta down their denim suits. By the way, what on earth do you think they did with that bloke's hand in Saffron Walden? I just can't get it out of my mind.