01 November 2012

we'll spend the day together eating a sandwich

The following is a true story regarding my current (recently upgraded) haircolour:

O'shea 17:50
it's very autumnal 
wcs 17:50
pierre and i 
we love to change with the seasons
he was like 'i see like a darker warmer' i was like 'you read my mind you lebanese genius'
and then we just had champagne and laughed

So yeah, i go to a totally overpriced hairdresser. but the thing is, it's in Marylebone, which is a lovely area and really, i never have much other reason to go there, so aside from generally fabulous haircolour/cutting experiences with pierre and adam and our champagne, it's also a nice excuse to hang around there.

but the real, main, issue here, is that afterwards, we went to the place in marylebone where you get steak and frites.


So yeah back to this whole Monday night business. I’ve clearly fallen behind already and im only like three days into this sad project. Anyway, c’est place is sort of a chain but there are totally branches in new York (well maybe it’s not open right this second), london, Manchester and obvs, paris. You wait for, I dunno, about an hour on a Monday night at 730, which means any other time will be twice as long – unless you go after 9. Seems to die down around then, although I have no idea how late they stay open. Anyway, this is hardly that relevant to you right now as we all know the question on your burning lips is ‘how the shit was the steak, bitch??’

It was good. It was actually very good. even if it had been mediocre or at the top level of poor, I would have been satisfied because what happens is this: You wait. You sit. They bring you a salad with walnuts (a fact you cannot ignore or escape because they make what I think is an inordinately big deal over – certain dinner companions, I think, found my befuddlement at this somewhat irritating), then they bring you your steak, which you have ordered blue, red, medium or well, along with a solid heap of chips. If you are me you mistake the mustard for salt and therefore inadvertently bypass it.

You get about five slices or so of meat, doused in a fairly unusual sauce that’s a distant cousin to pesto but I managed to get over that fact. Once you’ve cleared your plate, and only then, the lady comes back and asks you, ‘would you like more?’. What’s interesting about this detail, and rest assured, it is an interesting detail, is that she doesn’t give a shit what you say. Before the word ‘you’ is out of her mouth, three more slices of meat have settled on your plate. They should just come up and say ‘I am giving you more food now’. So another helping of fries and meat allowed me a second chance at the mustard, which should not be missed, and was just about enough for me and razberet, and we passed on dessert even though there were some tempting options.

a twee picture
Just down the road from the place where you get meat is Purl, one of these speakeasy throwback places that conveniently DOES have a sign (no need to take it too far, now, right?). I moronically rang the bell thinking you had to get let in but razberet being young and hip and there before, just walked in. for me, I say visit yourself. It’s a decent little place. Bit of jazz, some nice alcoves and couches, pricey but unusual (and mostly flammable) cocktails. They also did us the kindness of a palate cleanser. How many bars are that considerate?

I had a jewish champagne (how could I say no?) and razberet had something else that came in a bell jar full of smoke and was accompanied by dried up smoked chocolate. Mine was also served enfuego. 

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