My dear old friend Imelda, Dowager Duchess of Southend, passed away recently. Some of you will remember her as a character in my previous blogs, with her signature Brentford-nylons-and-ermine dressing gown and odd slippers. And that was just her going-out clothes.
So I set off for London to see the old girl off. It transpired that The Aunt was travelling to London on the same Eurostar, after a bit of online adjustment we managed to sit together. We were discussing a piece we had seen on Facebook about the possible future changes to the traditional English restaurant Simpson's-in-the-Strand, which we both deplored. It is the Last of England. In a moment of spontaneous jingoism, we decided to go and have dinner there. Aunty phoned Mr Bloke, who obediently booked a table for three and waited for us in the bar. It was pouring with rain when we arrived at St Pancras, and we decanted ourselves into a taxi to my hotel, and then another one to the Strand. Extravagant, I know, but I was celebrating my return to my home town after a rather long absence.
We arrived a little late and flustered at Simpson's, but a large Sipsmith's and Fever Tree each soon relaxed us. Mr Bloke was looking suitably relaxed after his third poncey cocktail. In the dining room I insisted on Ye Roste Beefe of Olde England, which was carved at the table. A massive portion of succulent roast beef slices were served on a plate smothered in gravy and alongside a large puffy Yorkshire Pudding and a dollop of horseradish. It was totally, totally delicious. The waiter informed us that our worries were unnecessary, that the restaurant was not going to change its style and become a Mexican cantina or a dim sum emporium. You heard it here first. Aunty foisted herself upon a group of unsuspecting Japanese diners and became their photographer for the evening.
So I set off for London to see the old girl off. It transpired that The Aunt was travelling to London on the same Eurostar, after a bit of online adjustment we managed to sit together. We were discussing a piece we had seen on Facebook about the possible future changes to the traditional English restaurant Simpson's-in-the-Strand, which we both deplored. It is the Last of England. In a moment of spontaneous jingoism, we decided to go and have dinner there. Aunty phoned Mr Bloke, who obediently booked a table for three and waited for us in the bar. It was pouring with rain when we arrived at St Pancras, and we decanted ourselves into a taxi to my hotel, and then another one to the Strand. Extravagant, I know, but I was celebrating my return to my home town after a rather long absence.
We arrived a little late and flustered at Simpson's, but a large Sipsmith's and Fever Tree each soon relaxed us. Mr Bloke was looking suitably relaxed after his third poncey cocktail. In the dining room I insisted on Ye Roste Beefe of Olde England, which was carved at the table. A massive portion of succulent roast beef slices were served on a plate smothered in gravy and alongside a large puffy Yorkshire Pudding and a dollop of horseradish. It was totally, totally delicious. The waiter informed us that our worries were unnecessary, that the restaurant was not going to change its style and become a Mexican cantina or a dim sum emporium. You heard it here first. Aunty foisted herself upon a group of unsuspecting Japanese diners and became their photographer for the evening.
The following day I took the train down to leafy Oxfordshire to spend a few days with my cousin, Vera Slapp, and her husband Cyril. They live in Midsomer Dibley, a picturesque chocolate-box village in South Oxfordshire with a listed post office and its own Abbey, no less. There are many picturesque country pubs in the area, one of which, the Fleur-de-Lys, or "Fleur" in Dorchester-on-Thames, serves up a pretty decent Saturday lunch.
Vera volunteered to accompany me to the funeral, and Cyril drove us to Tooting, birthplace of Wolfie Smith, Britain's once great revolutionary leader and precursor of Russell Brand. Before the funeral we went for lunch at the Charles Holden gastropub in Colliers Wood, where we had a very passable beer-battered haddock with chips and mushy peas served by an agreeable young man with an Australian accent.
The funeral went off well, considering. The funeral procession set off from her ancestral council flat, where we the mourners reminisced about her colourful life over a bottle of navy-strength gin. She had been a great supporter of Gay Pride, and a trio of drag queens turned up in full mourning regalia - black veils, wailing, rending of garments, etc. I hadn't seen anything like it since Lindsay Kemp's production of Jean Genet's "Notre Dame des Roses".
I don't know who chose the music, but we all jumped when a loud rendition of "Tequila!" blared out just as the hearse drew up to the front of the crem. The vicar managed to say diplomatic things about the old trout, and we all repaired to the Leather Bottle in Garratt Lane afterwards for the traditional drink and exchanging of photographs, memories, etc.
Channelling everyone from Queen Victoria to Jackie Kennedy, via Morticia Adams
Imelda came from very humble beginnings, starting out as a lavatory cleaner in the House of Lords where she met the 14th Duke of Southend. The old duke passed on many years ago, but Imelda (as she liked to be known, although her real name was Maureen) was a well known character in the locality, dressed in her trademark odd slippers and ermine-trimmed Brentford nylons dressing gown.I don't know who chose the music, but we all jumped when a loud rendition of "Tequila!" blared out just as the hearse drew up to the front of the crem. The vicar managed to say diplomatic things about the old trout, and we all repaired to the Leather Bottle in Garratt Lane afterwards for the traditional drink and exchanging of photographs, memories, etc.
Later I called in on another old fogey, Arthur Smith, who lives in nearby Balham. He took me to The French Café. Balham is very up and coming. Well it couldn't really have gone down any further than it was. I peeked in an estate agent's window - small Victorian terraced houses going for over a million! Madness. We both had Boeuf Bourgignon with mashed potato. Arthur is the messiest eater I have ever known. He always was famous for throwing his food all over the tablecloth - when he left a Chinese restaurant it looked like there had just been a wedding - but he has got worse with old age.
The next day I had arranged to meet my recently-ennobled friend Tarquin La Folle, now Lord Folle of New Ham. He invited me to lunch at the House. No, not his house. The House of Lords. I got a brief tour of the Palace of Westminster - Westminster Great Hall and the octagonal lobby where Nick Robinson lives - before being led down interminable carpeted corridors to the Barry Room, where I was treated to a very nice lunch. Haddock and salmon fishcake - with mushy peas! - and for pudding pear poached in port, with vanilla ice cream. The Noble Lords have recently complained about the food in the House, but I thought it was excellent and as it was only friends and relatives of the staff who were eating in the restaurant, with Milords being on recess, there was no risk of the cooks spitting in the food. Lord La Folle looked lovely in his ermine, and wore his robe all the way home on the tube.
The next day I had arranged to meet my recently-ennobled friend Tarquin La Folle, now Lord Folle of New Ham. He invited me to lunch at the House. No, not his house. The House of Lords. I got a brief tour of the Palace of Westminster - Westminster Great Hall and the octagonal lobby where Nick Robinson lives - before being led down interminable carpeted corridors to the Barry Room, where I was treated to a very nice lunch. Haddock and salmon fishcake - with mushy peas! - and for pudding pear poached in port, with vanilla ice cream. The Noble Lords have recently complained about the food in the House, but I thought it was excellent and as it was only friends and relatives of the staff who were eating in the restaurant, with Milords being on recess, there was no risk of the cooks spitting in the food. Lord La Folle looked lovely in his ermine, and wore his robe all the way home on the tube.
Pears poached in port, with vanilla ice cream. What's not to like?
We didn't go out for dinner because it was That Week on EastEnders, so we ordered in delicious Indian food and ate it on House of Lords trays in front of the telly. As Tarquin lives out the other side of Stratford - almost in Essex to be honest - the choice of Indian food is vast, and we feasted on a selection of meat and vegetable dishes of varying degrees of spiciness. 11-year-old Bobby Beale had been the bookies' favourite for the murder of Lucy, but I'd assumed it was a joke. Tarquin and I nearly dropped our poppadoms when it turned out to be true!
On the Friday I had promised to take Vi Hornblower out for a belated 50th birthday lunch (50 - ha! who is she kidding?) and we met her at Brasserie Zédel in Sherwood Street, just off Piccadilly Circus. It is a beautiful art deco basement restaurant, with a massive dining room very reminiscent of Paris. It was once the ballroom of the Regent Palace Hotel, which was known for its cheap rooms and even cheaper clientele.
Vi had egg mayonnaise to start, Tarquin had quiche Lorraine and I had endives salad with walnuts and Roquefort. For main course, I had grilled sole - with mushy peas! - Vi had the confit of duck in cassoulet, and Tarquin had coq au vin. He's always liked a nice coq. The food was delicious, and my guests got along famously with each other. Vi admired Tarquin's ermine robe, and he admired her leopardskin shoes. I chatted with the man at the next table while they were stroking each other's dead animals. For pudding I had profiteroles, Vi had something wonderful involving ice cream and meringue and Tarquin had a coffee. The bill was extremely reasonable, apart from the 15% service charge which bumped it up to about ₤33 a head.
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Crispy duck lunch for one, Lotus Leaf, Westfield
A little light shopping was on the cards, and Tarquin lives conveniently close to the Westfield Centre at Stratford. I made my usual beeline for Marks, Boots and John Lewis. Westfield has no less than 82 places to sit down and eat. I had eaten there once before at Pho, the Vietnamese place in the food court, so this time I plumped for Chinese and had crispy duck pancakes at Lotus Leaf. Talk about spoilt for choice! It would take you years to eat your way round Westfield. It was packed due to half term and I was impressed by the sophisticated choices of the diners, who were mostly schoolkids. Eating sushi expertly with chopsticks - in my day it was a bag of chips on the street, and a pickled egg if you really wanted to push the boat out.
On the day of my return to Brussels I arrived at St Pancras early, so that I could indulge myself in a Full English Breakfast at Cafe Pompidou, my favourite greasy spoon. The owner is a super efficient chap called Karim, who hails from the Atlas mountains of Algeria. Thanks to a previous liaison with a Son of the Desert, I was able to order in his native tongue. "Full English, hold the beans, extra tomato and a cuppa tea", I said in fluent Kabyle. "Coming up, darling," he replied in fluent Cockney. Prices have gone up a bit since I was last there - it's about ₤7.45 for a full English now, but the food is served promptly, beautifully cooked, and washed down with a pot of tea. Other diners - or brunchers, given the early hour - were having marshmallow float coffees, croissants, beans on toast, chai lattes, it seems nothing is impossible at Cafe Pompidou. I can't bear those hipster places serving overpriced poncey coffees and cinnamon buns. I like to leave England on a Full English stomach.
I made a last-minute raid on Tesco, stocking up on bacon, sausages, pork pies, Scotch eggs, Cheddar cheese and Cornish pasties, and staggered onto the Eurostar clutching bulging shopping bags, The Observer and a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk. In less than 2 hours I was back at Gare du Midi, clambering into a taxi. I really should do this more often.
Anyways, in memory of dear Imelda, please bow your heads, put your hands together and say a little prayer for her withered old soul.
