Thirty ONE, Single and Fabulous...?

There are some invitations which only death or alien abduction should prevent one from accepting; a Buckingham Palace garden party; front row at Chanel couture; dinner at Le Pont de la Tour with Best Straight Lady Friend. The last of these having metaphorically dropped on my virtual mat this week, and being neither dead (although not yet fully over the laryngitis) or away being anally probed by E.T. somewhere, I joyfully accepted. Whilst the biggest draw of course was the prospect of a few hours in BSLF’s always sparkling company, I also wanted to see for myself whether – having never been much of a fan of Conran restaurants – Le Pont de la Tour lived up to its reputation as being the jewel in the crown of Sir Terence’s gastro-empire. So it was that on Tuesday evening, wrapped-up and medicated, I trotted off to Butler’s Wharf and settled down to the important business of catching up and chowing down.

[This would not to be the first time I had chowed down on a Conran offering this week, as on Sunday, lured to The Brewers by ActiveWill and knowing I had Monday off to recover, I took home a 25 year old, 6’4”, skinny and extremely pretty employee of Sir Terence’s son Jasper and enjoyed a full ‘three courses plus coffee’. Numbers were exchanged, so watch this space.]

First impressions were good; we were taking advantage of a very attractive toptable offer of three courses and a glass of fizz for £30, and as we sat down this latter component appeared swiftly enough for us to enjoy it as we perused the menu. Despite Le Pont’s cuisine being ostensibly modern French, there was a strong Central European edge to the dishes on offer and three very appealing choices for each course. Holding no truck with the burgeoning anti-foie gras movement I opted for it in both my starter and main – the former a foie gras terrine with spiced chutney (I declined the brioche, being off the carbs), the latter roast duck breast with sour cherries and red cabbage served with a slice of the ambrosial organ as a finishing touch. BSLF, allowing herself an evening off from calorie counting (the results to date are impressive) opted for cream of cauliflower soup followed by guinea fowl served with stuffed cabbage and truffled potatoes.

Although the conversation flowed as easily as it always does, and I could report to you at length on recent developments in both my and BSLF’s lives, the most entertaining element of our evening was the human theatre going on around us. The mittel-Europe flavour of the menu was replicated in the staff, which whilst as a general rule aesthetically most pleasing, had a somewhat shaky grasp on the English language. One member however was clearly as French as French can be, namely the over-bearing sommelier who was snooty to the point of caricature. Used no doubt to intimidating the oenologically-unaware Eurotrash or pandering to the expense account suits who appeared to make up the bulk of the clientele, he seemed much taken aback when BSLF and I had the temerity to order, if you please, two glasses of the very same wine we had just been enjoying in the bar before we sat down, thanks very much, and no you may not suggest this or that more expensive alternative.

The table next to us had us transfixed, as a young-ish and clearly moneyed Lebanese-looking guy wined and dined a leggy, honey-blond Slavik girl wearing a permanent look of surprise. If this wasn’t their first date it was certainly early in their relationship (business or personal we couldn’t quite tell…) and the guy ordered expansively and expensively as his companion sat demurely making (surprised) eyes at him across the table. That the tower of fruits de mer which arrived on their table was so tall as to render eye-contact impossible had to be a bad omen, and sure enough BSLF had to kick me under the table to stop me from crying with laughter as a huge dressed crab plunged from atop the platter into the girl’s lap.

Undoubtedly the funniest moment of the evening however came with our desserts, both of us having ordered the (huge, it transpired) crème brulee. Le Pont de la Tour is famed for its spectacular views of, well duh, le pont de la tour, and in the hope of our being allocated a window table, BSLF had fibbed at the time of booking that it was my birthday. Shown to a by all accounts perfectly nice table at the side of the room, we assumed that the ruse had fallen on deaf ears; this was proved not to be the case when our waitress duly served me with my pud, complete with candle, on a plate beautifully iced in melted chocolate with ‘Happy Birthday’, and proceeded to enlist the help of passing colleagues to sing Happy Birthday to fraudulent old me whilst BSLF chuckled into her Chardonnay. Although nearly the end of the meal in any case, I felt so guilty accepting the congratulations that came from neighbouring tables (and the flattery of the big spender who told me that I could pass for 25!) that I hastened our departure to the bar for digestifs.

Over cocktails BSLF and I reflected, in true bar room style, on how fortunate we both are in the great scheme of things. Both young, successful, reasonably solvent and generally emotionally stable, our dinners give us a chance to step out of the daily whirl of work and play and devote time to helping each other stay that way. It’s something I’d like to be able to do with more of my friends, more of the time. Hell, if they all offer to treat me to slap up ‘birthday’ dinners at Le Pont, I even just might do that.