1 , - .. 've booked dinner at Claridge's, in i Gordon Ramsay's
restaurant, for myself and two friends. Now, the prospect of dining at a Ramsay. _ establishment is both thrilling — he is now generally regarded as Britain's greatest chef — and absolutely terrifying. A couple of years ago, in my other job — that lowly paid, undervalued one at the Independent — I interviewed Mr Ramsay and described him as looking like a cross between a bulked-out, beefed-up Patrick Swayze and, because of those spooky, vertical lines running down from the corners of his mouth, a ventriloquist's dummy. Now, I know Mr Ramsay can certainly give it — he's the one who, I think, first referred to Antony Worrall Thompson, quite magnificently, as 'the squashed Bee Gee' — but I'm not sure how good he is at taking it. Didn't he once throw the restaurant critic A.A. Gill out of his eponymous Chelsea restaurant because of something Mr Gill had once said about him? More, wasn't Mr Gill dining with a certain Ms Joan Collins that night, and didn't she get thrown out too, possibly by the scruff of her shoulder pads? Gulp. What am I going to do if confronted? Stick up for myself? Unlikely, as I'm just such a snivelling, pathetic, two-faced, lily-livered coward. Probably, I shall burst into tears in front of my companions. This could be most embarrassing for all concerned.
So, off I go to Claridge's which, as I recall, used to be advertised in the Jewish Chronicle as 'Claridge's for Marriages' (it did a good line in rich Jewish veddings), although our family always favoured the Dorchester. Claridge's is on Brook Street, just behind Oxford Street, and in I go through the grand entrance, with my collar well turned up, and on the look-out at all times for Mr Ramsay. I try to give myself a confidence-boosting pep talk: what do you really have to fear from this big, muscle-rippled marathon runner and former hard-man footballer? [turn my collar up a bit more. I wish I had some shoulder pads to turn up, but then remember that they didn't save Ms Collins. I remind myself that, after years of practice on my little sister, my Chinese-burn technique is second to none. All clear thus far. I edge towards the restaurant where my friends, David and Ann, are already waiting. The restaurant is rather divine: art-deco, golds and caramels, amazing chandeliers like spectacular upturned, crazy wedding cakes. It's 8 p.m. and buzzy with just the right amount of buzziness. Not too buzzy — the tables -a decent distance apart, so that every time you gesticulate your elbow doesn't end up in the neighbouring table's butter dish
but buzzy enough so that you don't get that awful hotel-restaurant mausoleum feel. There are some tables with kids, which is always nice to see. The tablecloths are of a heavy, expensive, top-quality damask, which is also nice to see. If the worst comes to the worst, and I spot Mr Ramsay approaching, can stick my head under the tablecloth. This is the advantage of expensive, heavy damask over thin, cheap, crappy stuff, or so I have always found.
From the off, the service is wonderful: French, friendly, efficient, never pompous, intimidating, oppressive. I'll say one thing for those cheese-eating surrender monkeys, they know how to be waiters. Or, as Ann later puts it, For a posh place, they deal very well with non-posh people like us.' Non posh? Me? Ann, I should point out, is an American, and so might not be able to recognise class when it's sitting opposite her, admittedly with its collar turned up. We are provided with bread (wonderful bread), butter (wonderful butter, salted and unsalted) and little nibbles which, I'm sure, were delicious but I can't now recall because, at that time, I was still on major Ramsay alert. Eventually we opt for the tasting menu, the Menu Prestige, which provides six courses at £60 a head. Sixty pounds a head? Expensive? Not really, not when you compare it to the cost, say, of private dentistry. I mention this because that day I'd been to the dentist for the first time in 15 years (further proof of my lily-livered cowardice: 'Ouch, give me an injection,' I always yell at the nurse as she's tucking that tissue thing round my neck) and had a filling. On my way out I went to pay the receptionist. 'That'll be one ninety,' she said. I handed her a £2 coin. She looked at me with a mixture of bemuse ment and contempt, then wrote out the sum clearly on a piece of paper: 'ü90'.
To cut a long story short, which is a novelty for me, I admit, here are our six courses and some thoughts on them. Pumpkin veloute with Parmesan and white-truffle shavings: sensationally delicious, like little pots of velvet scented with truffles and, at the very bottom, a delicious cube of melt-in-the-mouth Parmesan.
Ballotine of foie gras with marinated figs and Barolo reduction: never a great fan of foie gras (always thought of it as chi-chi lard for the upper classes) but am now a convert. Ann's never had it before and pronounces it 'bloody good'. It is.
Ravioli of tiger prawns and hand-dived scallops with lemon-grass vinaigrette: Ann and I like the hand-dived bit. We hope the hand diver has a bronze chest. David has quail breasts instead as he does not eat shellfish. 'They are the best, and only, quail breasts I have ever had,' says David, whose comments sometimes do not carry the authority they might.
Gordon Ramsay Approaching with Raised Fist and Medium-Rare Expression Promising Violence: only teasing.
Roasted canon of lamb with crushed new potatoes, white bean purée, baby leeks, rosemary jus: lamb soft, pink, tender, rather unlike you-know-who. I no longer think of baby leeks as the poor man's asparagus.
Caramelised pineapple with its own granite: we're glad the pineapple comes with it's own granite, as it's always a mistake to borrow someone else's, particularly for the Oscars.
Bailey's creme brOlee with caramelised pears and honeycomb ice-cream: we all decide that when we die, we would go happy if only we could die in a vat of this.
The food, we all concur, is magnificent, and not overpriced, Indeed, the general feeling is that they could have screwed a lot more out of us. 'If I wanted to have a special dinner, I would ask to come here,' says Ann. The sommelier, too, was great, recommending a Spanish red at £60 (still only the cost of a third of a filling, remember) that was truly tremendous. So tremendous, in fact, that we ordered a second bottle. By the time Mr Ramsay does appear — in one of those Pillsbury Dough outfits, looking like a cross between a bulked-up Patrick Swayze and a ventriloquist's dummy — I'm too tipsy to cower as definitively as I might have done. He doesn't notice me, thank God, but I notice his Popeye-esque, positively Chineseburn-proof forearms. Anyway, I don't want to give him Chinese burns any more. I just want to kiss his feet. Though, not after a marathon, obviously.
Claridge's, Brook Street, London W1; tel: 020 7499 0099.
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