The only thing I really want to tell you about is my Friday night. I went to Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley, a Michelin two-star restaurant and a treat and a half. Only problem is, I have no angle. Every pseudo-writer knows that there is no story without some sort of character development. I can't just say 'I went to this place and had a really nice time. The End.' That's not why you read LLFF. Unfortunately, that seems to be precisely what did happen. It was amazing. I didn't fall over, or see a celebrity, or get dumped while I was there. I just went, and it was amazing, and then I left. I've had my head in my hands for the last twenty minutes, trying to find a way in which to write about it, muttering, 'But how did it change me?' and the only thing I can think of is that my bank balance is now substantially lighter.
Imagine, I told myself, that you had to write about it. Imagine you were writing a restaurant review for a national magazine, what would you say then? What would be your angle? That it was really nice, I thought. It could be some indication of how perfect the evening was if I tell you that my only - and I mean literally the ONLY - gripe was that the wine menu, displayed in a thick black photo album, was quite heavy and difficult to hold. That was less than irritating, a barely-registered nark, that vanished when the sommelier brought me precisely the wine I wanted, a fact made all the more miraculous given that the help I'd given him consisted of handing back the wine list, saying I didn't know what to order, but that I knew I wanted my wine to be white, a bit oaked, a bit fruity, very dry, strong enough to counterbalance the powerful flavours of the food I was about to enjoy, and that I was sick of New Zealand Sauvignon. A moment later, there it was, in my glass. I fervently wish that all of life were that simple.
So yeah. The wine list was a bit cumbersome. But that was it. Aside from that, it was perfect. The lighting was perfect. The starters, main course, inter-course snackettes and desserts were perfect. The wine was perfect. The service was perfect. The furniture was perfect. The other guests were perfect. The truffles-to-go in their cellophane bag were perfect. The tour around the kitchen at the end was perfect. The bill, I'll admit, was not perfect. But it was really nice and worth every penny. I have no angle. So I'll stop writing.
The End. (Unless you want to read on.)
WARNING: as opposed to the edge-of-your-seat paragraphs above, the below is a literal description of what we ate and has absolutely no literary merit whatsoever. It is recommended that you only continue if you actually want to know exactly what was on the tasting menu at Marcus Wareing last Friday. On no account read the below and expect to be entertained.
So you sit down and you are brought canapes - one was pork balls, a bowl of four (two each), about the size of an average gobstopper, crispy thin breadcrumby batter around delicious moist pork mixed with pine nuts, like a really posh hot Scotch egg without the egg. The other was this weird amazing thing - like one of those rectangular ice-cream sandwich things you used to get but tiny - actually, it wasn't anything like that. OK, so it was these two small rectangles of crispy cheese wafer, about the size of the long side of a small matchbox. Between them was sandwiched the most out of this world truffle moussey stuff, tanged with mustard, light and rich and deliriously delicious. It was probably my highlight of the entire meal, depressing to start so high but there's a middle class gripe if ever I wrote one ("My canape was too nice, the rest of my two Michelin-starred tasting menu was slightly less exciting"). Two of those each. Then the amuse bouche proper - their 'witty' take on fish and chips (it being Friday) - a shot glass of fish soup topped with chip foam, which was beyond compare. Beautiful, fine salt and pepper breadsticks (two each) in a third shot glass. Then the fish course - heritage tomatoes - this turned out to mean a slice of red, yellow and green tomato - topped with clam and crab and some delicious potato croutons. Oh shit, I forgot the bread. The bread was potato and something else... god, I can't remember, but it was amazingly soft, although I guess at heart just posh ciabatta. What was unbeLIEVAbly exciting was the fact that you were offered your choice of salted or unsalted butter. Anyway. Despite knowing the amount of food I was about to consume, I still had two slices of bread. I know, call the obesity police. That was a joke.
So yeah, the fish course I could take or leave, to be honest. It was very fresh and healthy and had moments of niceness but it's nothing to write home about, nor, indeed, on a semi-popular blog. Too late. Then was another serious peak, the quail. Two tiny quail breasts, skin-on, crispy on the outside, so tender beneath, sitting atop some sort of parmesan frothy sauce, and sweetcorn kernals and another sauce, and then these adorable and perfect-in-every-way shallot onion rings, two of them, stacked on the top like the best glace cherry of all time. Oh and some coriander but I picked it off. One of those plates of food where all the individual ingredients are pretty good, but together it creates an oral sensation akin to bliss. The combination of textures, the crunch of the quail skin, the smoothness of the flesh, the burst of the sweetcorn, the creaminess of the parmesan, the sticky bite of the shallot ring... it was a work of art. We ate slowly and with many sighs of pleasure. Emily found a small fragment of onion ring in her teeth a few minutes after our plates had been cleared and let out a woop of delight.
Then the main course, which I lost. There was a choice of two, and I felt like we should sample them both, so I ordered what Emily didn't. She had the lamb (which would have been my staple choice) so I had the beef. Mine was good, hers was exceptional. The beef was served with baby turnips and red onion hearts, lightly roasted I think. And some delicious carrots. But the lamb was served with some sort of yoghurt and roasted peaches and something else - I can't remember as I only had one mouthful, but blimey it was tear-jerking. Then a pre-dessert, an immaculate layered chocolate and sponge creation that must have been made by the Borrowers, so precise was it. And an almond jelly I think. And another shot glass with their version of a virgin mojito - crushed ice, mint, a cucumber jelly layer and something else. A sorbet to cleanse and refresh our battered palates.
Then the cheese course, one portion between two, six slivers of fromage selected from a trolley the size of a child's bed, there must have been fifty or sixty on offer, our selection beautifully presented on a heavy dark brown plate in a circle, to be eaten clockwise, from mild to strong, with a streak of the ambrosia that is apple sauce down the middle. Heaven. Then back from the savoury to more sweet - a supreme tarte tatin shared between two, with a pot of creme fraiche and a pot of ginger crunch ice cream, the pastry layers sticky, dense but crispy, the apples caramalised just the right amount. Then coffees and the truffle trolley, a five foot high silver wheeled beast with hooks holidng silver baskets filled with six or seven types of homemade truffles. I forced two down and we got the rest to go, taking our cue from the next door table.
And that was how we celebrated Em's engagement, me keeping a promise made several years ago. I will be fat forever.
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