Resting Banking Girl Gets Merry in Mayfair
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Just as one is forbidden to write London without putting the adjectives 'diverse and vibrant' in front of it, so it seems that British Food must be called 'great'.
And so it was that one Friday night in May, Ms R and Resting Banker Girl (RBG) found themselves negotiating the rowdy Mayfair after work mob en route to Great British Food at the Albemarle restaurant in Brown's Hotel.
'There are a lot of short, fat, bald men in Mayfair," I observed
"Hedgies," said RBG, who has worked with many in her time.
"Really? Gosh the one I adopted is cute. Useless. But slim. With hair."
"He’s in the minority. Now you see why these men have to have money."
"Yes, it’s rather like Phil Collins had to be a famous drummer or he’d just be a tubby bald bloke."
In this benevolent frame of mind we reached the Albemarle which is a very large restaurant indeed. It is, said RBG, "Gracious French Brasserie meets English Manor House."
And it works. There is a lot of attention to detail here. The soft muted green chairs and banquettes are there to sink into. The tables are large and the decoration is top notch. The Albemarle also has some of the best lighting I’ve ever experienced in a restaurant.
"This is a place where you feel just as comfortable doing business as kissing your lover," I opined.
RBG was too busy tucking into her treacle cured salmon with cured fennel which she said, made most restaurant salmon offerings look like Tesco’s Cheapest. I had asparagus and radish salad. It was fresh and crunchy. RBG had ordered chump of lamb. If you want to test a chef you order lamb because it’s seriously hard to cook well. We both agreed it was brilliant. My wild sea trout on potato salad was also delicious. Neither dish could be faulted, nor could the service. These are serious and charming professionals at work here who glide through knowing exactly when to pause at your table.
We had a beautiful Rioja, which was recommended to us, and in terms of hotel markups was not stupid. We were also brought a loaf of freshly baked sourdough with unsalted butter as soon as we sat down which we both tried to push away, but to which ended up surrendering.
I couldn’t manage puddings, which are of the classic English variety, but RBG went for the treacle pudding with custard, which smelled absolutely gorgeous.
"Breakfast," said RBG, who is not adverse to custard doughnuts upon arising. She works it off.
And so well-fed and charmingly tended-to we emerged to a Mayfair that was rather like a scene from a Hogarth painting: the desperate and dateless were everywhere like street sellers hawking their wares; men willing to exchange money for a cookie cutter blonde, and young women willing to exchange almost anything for money - even if it came with a fat, tubby bloke attached.
"Imagine him huffing and puffing..."
"Don’t," I said.
'There are a lot of short, fat, bald men in Mayfair," I observed
"Hedgies," said RBG, who has worked with many in her time.
"Really? Gosh the one I adopted is cute. Useless. But slim. With hair."
"He’s in the minority. Now you see why these men have to have money."
"Yes, it’s rather like Phil Collins had to be a famous drummer or he’d just be a tubby bald bloke."
In this benevolent frame of mind we reached the Albemarle which is a very large restaurant indeed. It is, said RBG, "Gracious French Brasserie meets English Manor House."
And it works. There is a lot of attention to detail here. The soft muted green chairs and banquettes are there to sink into. The tables are large and the decoration is top notch. The Albemarle also has some of the best lighting I’ve ever experienced in a restaurant.
"This is a place where you feel just as comfortable doing business as kissing your lover," I opined.
RBG was too busy tucking into her treacle cured salmon with cured fennel which she said, made most restaurant salmon offerings look like Tesco’s Cheapest. I had asparagus and radish salad. It was fresh and crunchy. RBG had ordered chump of lamb. If you want to test a chef you order lamb because it’s seriously hard to cook well. We both agreed it was brilliant. My wild sea trout on potato salad was also delicious. Neither dish could be faulted, nor could the service. These are serious and charming professionals at work here who glide through knowing exactly when to pause at your table.
We had a beautiful Rioja, which was recommended to us, and in terms of hotel markups was not stupid. We were also brought a loaf of freshly baked sourdough with unsalted butter as soon as we sat down which we both tried to push away, but to which ended up surrendering.
I couldn’t manage puddings, which are of the classic English variety, but RBG went for the treacle pudding with custard, which smelled absolutely gorgeous.
"Breakfast," said RBG, who is not adverse to custard doughnuts upon arising. She works it off.
And so well-fed and charmingly tended-to we emerged to a Mayfair that was rather like a scene from a Hogarth painting: the desperate and dateless were everywhere like street sellers hawking their wares; men willing to exchange money for a cookie cutter blonde, and young women willing to exchange almost anything for money - even if it came with a fat, tubby bloke attached.
"Imagine him huffing and puffing..."
"Don’t," I said.
Here Is The Writer : Ms Robinson
Ms Robinson was once a copywriter who wrote award winning ads and had eight hour lunches. Weary of the sex, glamour and lavish parties, she switched to corporate communications where she held the hands of executives and banned them from writing this execrable sentence: "In this ever changing world, the only constant is change itself." These days she writes for an increasing variety of people and has ghostwritten several books but if she told you who for, she'd have to kill you. Click here to read her blog, Woman of Experience.
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