RESTAURANT AS THEATRE
I MET SUSAN on our first day at primary school. We were only allowed to object to three items on the lunch menu and we both chose swede, liver and jelly. Otherwise we had to say 'ordinary', 'small', or 'small as possible' to tinned macaroni cheese and steak and kidney pudding. Susan taught me how to hide my pork rissoles in my overall and I ate her raw carrot discs at morning break. So food was the foundation of our 25-year relationship.
By eight we were making our own con- coctions: chocolate cornflake bars, lemon fairy cakes or toffee, and smuggling them into school. By nine my parents decided to introduce us to artichokes, and Susan near- ly choked to death swallowing the hairy bits. So at pony camp we reverted to ginger cake, pickled onions and cheese and pickle sandwiches.
At Marlborough College, our first taste of mixed-sex education, we weren't tempt- ed by the chicken fricassee, Irish stew or kedgeree. By now Susan was so beautiful that one boy smashed his head through a window in a vain bid to attract her atten- tion. I discovered the tuck shop and pro- gressed to the Saturday market, but Susan remained faithful to her cheese and pickle sandwiches. At Edinburgh University she added porridge to her repertoire, and an Italian boyfriend introduced her to lemon tart. But when she moved to Argentina, the diced Branston pickle went too.
Then she married a budding Northern business tycoon and moved to Yorkshire, the home of her favourite dish; the only deviation would be the occasional plough- man's. Suddenly Susan was ringing up to swap recipes. Now that she had her own kitchen, she thought she should learn to cook.
By the time Susan made a rare visit to London last week, I knew I wouldn't be able to compete with her stuffed fillet of sea bass. So I thought I'd take her to my local restaurant. There have to be some advantages to being woken by the accor- dion player on Portobello market every Saturday morning rather than by the sun streaming over the moors. Walking to your local to order asparagus spears with truffle shavings rather than driving to some tourist-laden pub for queasy quiche is one of them.
My once chewing-gum-infested street of Westbourne Grove has now become so dis- gustingly trendy that its public lavatories win awards, its waifs are supermodels and the Oxfam shop sells f200 first editions of flower etchings. In the last 12 months three new locals have opened up that are so cool they can forgo air-conditioning.
The first, Assaggi, was booked for five weeks even though it was August, so it now disqualifies as a local and moves into the Uber-restaurant league. The second, Zucca, is my favourite. 'Do you have wood-fired stoves in Yorkshire?' I asked Susan. 'Of course not, we're not in the Dark Ages.' Well, in London Queen Ethelburga-style stoves are all the rage, and Zucca is privi- leged to have one.
Zucca may masquerade as the white- walled, skinny, minimalist fashion future Peter Mandelson often props up the bar in his Lycra biking shorts — but it might as well have checked tablecloths and candles in bottles. It qualifies perfectly for the pizza/pasta joint next door. The local foot- ball team pitch up there after practice. There is always a last-minute space and the waiters went to school round the corner. They don't flinch when your goddaughter orders chocolate and almond cake as her starter and garlic bread for pudding or your elderly relative with Alzheimer's keeps ask- ing for custard on her ravioli. No one minds if you haven't changed out of your suit into Notting Hill's regulation combat trousers, and it's quiet enough to have a long natter over tumblers of house white.
There is only one problem: the risotto. The first time I went it was strawberry- flavoured bubblegum, the second time it was garlic-laden soup and, at my last attempt, the bloated chicken livers seemed to have swallowed up the rice entirely. But as long as you stick to the other dishes, bresaola and purple figs, warm salad of fresh eel, or penne with quail and butter- Its time you knew son, you were a frozen embryo.' nut squash, the effect is fresh, simple and reliable.
Or it was until I went with Susan. It start- ed going wrong with the seating. We had a birthday party on one side and a hen night on the other. Both were already in full swing, crotchless panties littered the tables and the drinking songs had begun. A mouth organist and guitarist drifted in off the street to add to the gaiety, and handed round a cap for the privilege. The situation might have been salvaged, but then Susan ordered the risotto. She could have had the cour- gette flowers stuffed with ricotta, the 'in' London dish, which at Zucca has the merest hint of batter, large orange-veined flowers and the tenderest stalks, or the wood-roast- ed queenies with spring onions and corian- der, so clean and juicy they squeak on your teeth. I knew the calf's liver with pea leaves, baby beets and crispy prosciutto had just been perfected. She could have had a simple pizza. But she was adamant. She had been experimenting in her kitchen with risotto and wanted to compare results.
The risotto was wild mushroom. I prayed it would be all right, but I knew as soon as it arrived that it would flop. The mush- rooms looked like any supermarket 'med- ley' you could buy in Leeds, only they were fluorescent yellow, the colour of Mr Man- delson's trainers, with the same rubbery texture, and the rice was set in rigid patties around them. I'd asked for no croutons on my Caesar salad with flaked tuna, and got a plate of large hunks of soggy, stale fried bread, covered by a few cos leaves.
`I didn't want the croutons,' I pleaded. `But you said extra croutons, no tuna,' the waitress screeched above the noise. Susan said they were an improvement on her bouncy mushrooms, and left me with the cos, which was at least crunchy. Even a sub- limely light almond tart with raspberries and clotted cream didn't drown out the braying of our neighbours, now swapping stories about blow-up dolls. Zucca is the name of a squash and that night it was too squashed, so we fled home for coffee.
A postcard arrived two days later: 'From Yorkshire Hick to Notting Hill Mrs. I loved the croutons.' I was mortified. Next time I'm taking her to Dakota, my third local, frequented by Kate Moss and Madonna. I hate Tex-Mex food, all those regurgitated beans smothered in cream, but at least edi- ble corn dollies haven't hit Yorkshire yet, and Susan can go back with a new list of ingredients for lobster tostadas and Yucatan duck broth to demand at her Safe- way. She will be able to explain to her neighbours the difference between chipotle and chipolatas (one's a smoked jalapeno, the other a stunted sausage), and the chut- neys — Oaxaca chili jam and mango, papaya and black beans — will spice up her cheese sandwiches.
Zucca: 188 Westbourne Grove, London W11 (Tel: 0171 727 0060). Tivo courses with wine about £50 for two.
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