Right, first a bit of house keeping: after my weekly tune-in to the typically British radio show “Just a Minute” in which contestant regulars are meant to discuss a random topic for sixty seconds without repetition, repetition, hesitation or deviation, I remember hearing the host of another radio show voice her displeasure with blog-like email updates. She wished those of us who update the world with our grand lives and meagre tales would “blog-off.” Despite the great joy I receive in subjecting you all to the endlessly entertaining events in my life, if you so wish, please do feel free to request that they stop without fear of damnation in Dante’s 3rd ring of luddite inferno or any offence to me and my friendly ego.
Last week it felt about time for time for something interesting to happen. My life seems to provide noteworthy events with a fairly regular periodicity. And on queue, as I was squeezing the last ounce of toothpaste from the Colgate tube onto my toothbrush one evening, I had the sudden realisation of meeting a major milestone in my life. One of the major rites of passage that all young men go through had come and gone. I realised that I had been the sole consumer of an entire tube of toothpaste. In the untold hundreds of millilitres of paste that had been used in my lifetime, brushed and washed away down countless drains around the world, none had come from a non-communal source. And now to the long list of grand and meagre cairns that I have passed, I can add the confident assertion without too little pride that I had persevered to complete an entire tube of toothpaste without the aid of any foreign brushes steeling the minty limelight.
When this stunning realisation hit me, my shirt smelled kindly of smoke, London underground, Tabac cologne and a cold night in March. I had just returned from dinner with fellow high school alumni Nick Stipp. After a few unsuccessful months as a travelling alligator wrangler for international zoologists studying the effects of amphibious waste products on global warming, Nick now meets with clients around the world to discuss database management tools for patents. On his regular trips to London, he is kind enough to take pity on those of us without outback experience and join me for dinner. Our mutual interest in jazz necessitated a late start and a live jazz restaurant. The former turned out to be more easily fulfilled on a Wednesday night in Soho. The menu and the empty seats in Jazz after Dark was inspiration to find another stop.
We passed a few Thai restaurants before deciding on a Hungarian one called Gay Hussar. Apparently, the banquette seating, dark wood panelling, antiques, book shelves packed with scores of political first editions has attracted generations of the UK’s leading political figures, journalists, artist and writers… Not sure we really fit the description, we went in anyway!
The headwaiter was fashionably dressed: his orange tie reflected well a light and witty demeanour that was readily apparent and charmingly welcoming. The restaurant was full of as many well-dressed businessmen as the walls were adorned with Martin Rowson’s caricatures of prominent political figures. With no empty seats available on the first floor, we were assured of both some quality begotten of popularity and eventually two seats in a small room on the 1st floor. With only four other people in the room and no background music, the patterned fabric wallpaper, fine table settings and thick moth-eaten curtains were awkwardly quiet. You were very aware of the other tables’ ability to listen in on your conversation: perfect for political intrigue, I’m sure.
Nick was in a clean pressed black suit and starched white shirt with stainless steal knotted cufflinks. His tie was the only missing element from the work wardrobe leftovers. With my green plaid shirt, unshaven face and jeans, my feeling of being underdressed was quickly washed away by our conversation. Nick is admirably impressed by uniquity – as we all should be – and so whenever we meet, I try to be as unusual or eccentric as I tolerably can in the hopes of averaging out to something like that admirable and impressive state.
The stage was well set, but it seemed that the food suffered from the weight of its historical precedent. Despite the obvious attention to detail, hidden among the prestigious decor was simplicity of a routine that did not inspire the crisp fresh intensity of exquisite fine cooking. My poor attempts at explaining undressed ideas, I hoped would add some complexity to the meal.
Afterwards, we were quick to agree that the £3 cover charge to Jazz after Dark was £4 over priced for the blues trio working their chops that evening. The stage was cramped with low ceilings, small chairs and two Russian women ensconced in their foreign discussions of unknown Russian issues among the small and oblivious smoky crowd. I understand that the Blues is supposed to be woeful, but not like this. In spite of the fact that it was obvious that the band had read Lame Mango Washington’s “How to sing the Blues”, they did not feel it with the intensity or virtuosity of a polished trio. Our evening ended amicably at Tottenham Court Road Station.
And so staring at my neck in a mirror too short to show anything taller, I polished my teeth with the last of my now benchmarking toothpaste trying to slow down the naturally repetitive, endlessly hesitating and sneakily deviating nature of my mind in preparation for sleep after dining on sweet pepper salad, Hungarian spinach pancakes, and layered toffee cake with an ex wrangler. Ahh…London!
Tags: London