I often wake up, after a night in a restaurant, racked with horror and guilt, despite the fact that it is rare for me these days to have done anything truly horrific or meriting of serious guilty feelings.
I do not, for example, “go on” after dinner any more, and haven’t in years. There was a time in my life when any restaurant, after apéritifs, a bottle of white, a bottle of red and half a bottle of grappa, turned out to be just round the corner from the Groucho. Even if the restaurant was in Brixton or Potters Bar. Or Brighton. And the Groucho, which closed at two, was just around the corner from Gerry’s, which closed at three, which was just round the corner from the house in Acton where all these people were going, to kneel round a broken coffee table in a shag-carpeted front room for no apparent reason, which was only just round the corner from this girl’s flat in Wimbledon, who had asked me to take her home as it was so late, but who turned out to be completely imaginary when the uniformed man at Tooting bus depot was shaking my arm at 6 the next morning and telling me it was time to go home to my wife and… Oh no, the school run!
Doesn’t happen now. Sadly. Haven’t got the stamina or, to be fair, the remotest inclination. I was unchained from that particular lunatic some time ago (though others still rattle along in my wake, howling and scratching at their faces). But that doesn’t mean the shame mechanism isn’t still there. And it kicks in sometimes when I sit down to write a review, pull a receipt out of my wallet to remind myself what I ate and… don’t remember any of it.
Like this one I’ve got here from the Aubrey at the Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge, a so-called izakaya (meaning a Japanese pub – every second opening in London is one of these at the moment) on the site of what used to be Bar Boulud, the big brasserie story of 2010, from the famous Daniel of that surname.
The bill I’ve got here starts with a manhattan for…. How much? Eighteen quid? Bloody hell. Although I do just about remember it. It had a very large, clear ice cube, whose edges all touched the side of the circular tumbler at the same time (leaving not much room for the booze) and there was a blob of orange in a dimple on the top. I remember I ordered it because I was waiting for my friend Matt, who had gone to the “wrong” bar at the Oriental (one of the ones upstairs) and had been there for some time, embarrassingly, as I had, earlier in the evening, gone for a couple of pints at my local, nipped home to get my phone, and fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the cricket, waking up just in time to text Matt, as I ran to the Tube, that I might be a few minutes late.
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When he eventually found me, he consoled himself with a vodka martini, I am reminded by the bill, and then we had one more each to level up, while we waited for our table. They were £21 each, I note, bringing our total bill to £81 plus service (so £91.12) before we had even begun eating this meal that I cannot remember. (Are you starting to smell the shame?)
The martinis were crisp and sharp (probably) and served in glassware every bit as pretty and apposite as the manhattan. Cocktails are a big thing here, says the website, as it invites you to “experience the city’s first omakase cocktail bar and revel in the Bar Director’s expert creations and extensive collection, as they craft a personal experience”. But don’t worry, it just means, “They get you battered on strong liquor at big boy prices.”
From there, I assume we followed some chap from the bar, possibly bumping into things (me, not Matt; Matt hadn’t had three pints before the cocktails), through the big, low-ceilinged, barely lit room, with its marble side surfaces, dark parquet, red velvet sofas and Japanese wall hangings, to a table of some sort.
There we were presided over by an excellent waitress whose face I remember but not her name, which I hope is because I didn’t ask her, rather than because I have forgotten. One should never ask a waitress her name, especially when drunk, and if one does, one should definitely not forget it.
I remember also talking about how there didn’t look to be any Russians here, obviously, and about what on earth this place, and others like it, will do without them. It’s super-expensive sushi and cocktails in a Knightsbridge hotel; it’s not for English people. The Russian pound (or “rouble”) will have been all over the Aubrey’s business plan like spilt bortsch.
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And I remember a woman across from me with a big theatrical light, illuminating her table like the Olympic Stadium in Beijing for her food photos, and not even tutting because I was so drunk. And her coming over to apologise for it later, even though I hadn’t tutted. So maybe I had.
What I don’t remember is the ibérico secreto from the robata grill (£23), but it looks absolutely wonderful here in my photos, blackened at the edges, brown for a millimetre or two then pinking to red in the middle, juicy, salty, tender as hell from not doing much on the pig’s neck there, nestling behind the shoulder muscle. I’ll have enjoyed that, I imagine.
Likewise, this split marrowbone oozing roasted fat into a pile of fried rice and spring onions. Scouring my bill, I guess that must be the wagyu fried rice (£18). Ooh, and these three big golden gyoza (£19) must have been yummy – I see they had wagyu in them too. Delish.
Going back to the start of my photos, I see a nice crisp seaweed salad (£12) with tobiko (flying fish roe) stained red, orange and yellow. It will have been a nice, sharp palate cleanser, I dare say. Then, whoaaa, that’s a blurry picture, looks to be sushi, some salmon roe (£8 for 2 pieces), grilled eel (£9) and yellow tail (£10), and then, yes, as usual, the scallop sashimi (£7).
The agedashi tofu looks a bit grim, but I think that’s just the lighting (I should have borrowed that lady’s lamp). Although tofu is never that nice, is it? I usually order it to see if they’ve been able to make it interesting, but on this occasion I can’t tell you. There is also a picture of some robata-grilled asparagus (which I shouldn’t have ordered because it’s not in season) with a poached egg nestling on it (£11), and this blackened lump at the end must be the chicken karaage (£14). Or is it my shoe?
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Then we seem to have had two glasses of Shichiken Junmai Daiginjo, which I’m guessing was a saké, two glasses of “Smith Boom Boom Syrah”, which I’m going to go out on a limb and say was almost certainly full-bodied and jammy, and two glasses of Suntory Chita. Now, Suntory makes whisky, doesn’t it? So that’ll be what that was. No coffees (good call, one doesn’t like to affect one’s ability to sleep), and a bill for… Blimey: £363.20.
Now, that would be a terrible thing to admit, wouldn’t it? That I had spaffed damn near four hundred quid of your hard-earned subscription fees on a meal I didn’t even remember. But, you see, luckily, I have just remembered why I woke up the next morning racked with guilt. It was because Matt paid the bill.
It’s all coming back to me now. We both pulled out our credit cards to split the thing but our waitress made a booboo (it’s dark in there, did I mention?) and put it all on Matt’s. I tried to ask her to redo it but possibly wasn’t making much sense, and Matt said, “Don’t worry, Giles. You get the next one.”
So I left it. And we went out and hailed a cab and he dropped me off in Kentish Town on his way back to Hampstead, so I guess he must have paid for the cab too. And through all my guilt about not having paid for any of it, I remember thinking, as I stabbed my key repeatedly at the outside edges of the keyhole, that it was probably for the best, because it meant that it had just been a night out with Matt. It wasn’t on expenses, so wasn’t technically work, and now I wouldn’t have to write about it.
The Aubrey
Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park, 66 Knightsbridge, London SW1 (020 7201 3899; mandarinoriental.com)
Food About 7?
Service Definitely, like, 9?
Value Well, I didn’t pay, but say… 3?
Score 6.33
