Low life
Lone Christmas
Jeffrey Bernard
'Turkeys, I suppose, spend the major part 1 of their lives being lulled into a false sense of security and well being. Their final demand, so to speak, comes but once and lack of rehearsals must make the final crunch an unexpected and painless event. No, I can't feel sorry for them en masse but I couldn't help shedding a tear for the one I nibbled at in the Park Lane Hilton on Christmas Day. The idea of being stuffed daily only to end up being eaten by me and an assorted bunch of fairly revolting Arabs and Iranians makes me feel that a turkey's life lacks meaning. And, talking of getting stuffed, it occurred to me as I eyed the menu that had the Last Supper been held in the Hilton the bill would have come to £500, VAT and tip included.
But it was a pretty good lunch as lunches go, even though conversation was limited to exchanges with a trainee wine waiter who'd just learnt the phrase 'full bodied' and who kept repeating it like a parrot. I had a nice little table by the window on the first floor restaurant that overlooked Hyde Park. The grass there was like icing on an enormous cake. To my right the sun was setting over Byron's statue and to my left a hideous Arabian couple were looking down their amazing noses at me and getting high on Evian Water. You can hardly blame Arabs for making their women cover their faces but you can certainly blame the men themselves for dressing in those horribly common, expensive Yves St Laurent suits that still have flared trousers. They marinate themselves in Faberge after-shave and talk constantly of money. The idea of being whipped by these people for having the odd drink gave me the most dreadful daymares, and I shall be turning down any offers from the Kuwait Times to syndicate Low Life.
The population of the Hilton made me feel I was residing in the Gaza strip and they could have saved themselves fortunes if they'd put down sand instead of carpets. Behind me, a Jewish couple spent the lunch talking, not to each other, but to the waiters. 'A sausage with your stuffing sir?' 'Ooh no. My husband won't eat sausages, will you Cyril? No, he's always hated sausages, haven't you? I've tried him on sausages time and time again, but he just won't eat one, will you darling?' In the background an incredibly naive and old- world pianist was getting little response from the ivories he was tickling heavy handedly. He played a strange non-stop medley that comprised such leaden oldies as `Old Man River', 'Hearts of Oak', 'Polly Wally Doodle' and 'Rock-a-Bye Baby'.
I kicked off with an avacado which was followed by some excellent chicken con- sommé. With the last sip of that, between `Jingle Bells' and 'You Made Me Love You', a big table in front of me was taken over by a very flash Italian family. The woman immediately put me off the forth- coming turkey. She was one of those blond icebergs I'm irresistibly drawn to and who make me feel like the Titanic. The packaging is obvious. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths but gold ingots might. They wear on their backs what they've earned on them and at 40 the skin begins to wrinkle around the eyes with the effort of trying to acquire even more wealth and ease. Even the children have blow-waved hair and are allowed to snap at waiters. Well, I staggered through the main course eyeing the lady's excellent legs but my food was out of focus since I'd lost my reading and eating glasses. Over three hours at my table I consumed a modest bottle of Moulin a Vent and one large vodka. That lot came to £19.05, which I thought was pretty strong, and I also thought I was being rather nice to the Spectator accounts department by eschew- ing the wine that cost £200 a bottle. The lunch was £25 by the way. I came back to earth over the pudding. As I say, I'd lost my glasses and the waiter didn't bother to tell me that the first mouthful was still on fire. But the Hilton food is good, and the simple meal I had that night — a hamburger and chips followed by a fresh fruit salad and two drinks was even better although I thought £10.85 a trifle steep with 15 per cent on that.
No, where these people get you is over trifling items like 30p for a very brief telephone call. Also, another entry, 'Room service dinner — £5.40', was simply a drink and a piece of cake, if my memory serves me, which it doesn't often. And although the room was very comfortable, I thought £77 a little much. But then I'm not, like the foreign guests, in a position to regard loot as mere pieces of paper. As a lone Christmas I preferred it to being alone at home. After all it was amusing to watch other people putting such an enormous ef- fort into a ritual that's double dutch to them. They looked quite incredulous when Father Christmas walked into the restaurant ringing a bell and actually giving the children presents. When I signed the bill on Boxing Day morning, all I could think of was the fact that had Pontius Pilate had any sense at all and simply put Jesus Christ on probation for a couple of years or given him a suspended sentence, then none of this would have happened. In conclusion may I wish my readers a Happy New Year and myself a prosperous one.
Oh yes, and the Spectator another £287.55 worth of new subscriptions.
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