O'shea 17:50
it's very autumnal
wcs 17:50
yes
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.
[INTERMISSION]
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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