the times | Thursday August 6 2020 1GT 5
the table
I’ve had a lot of fun — perhaps a tad
too much, my boyfriend often says.
Being a twentysomething journalist
in 1990s London was to behave
abysmally in wild, noisy, sociable
restaurants. These were the days
when the tennis player Boris Becker
was getting a waitress up the
duff in a broom cupboard after a
quick shag, or as he said: “Poom-
bah-poom.”
I have no restaurant lovechild to
remember those magical days by, but 1the platform waiting for a train and
felt convinced I was about to die. I felt
sad about the kids and relieved I had
life insurance.”
Parle is striving and striving. I’ve
watched other chef and restaurateur
friends adapt to survive and I’ve
watched them throw up their hands
and surrender to the times.
Lockdown didn’t kill them entirely;
restaurants had been turning into
pretty serious places in the previous
decade or so as Britain upped its
culinary game. We had gone from a
rosbif joke to one of the greatest places
to eat out in the world, and a lot of
restaurants started to take themselves
very seriously. When my career as a
restaurant critic started to wane I
didn’t feel as sad as I might have
done. Honestly, I’d fallen out of love
with restaurants a bit.
The restaurant where ten years
ago I met my boyfriend, Julie’s in
Clarendon Cross, Notting Hill,
had a 30-year history of perfectly
OK food and a deliciously louche
atmosphere. When it reopened last
year as a stiff fine-dining restaurant
with fantastic nettle risotto, but
bugger all atmosphere, it seemed
to sum up my feelings about
restaurants generally.
Where was the fun? Why did I
have to sit up and pay attention to the
waiter describing everything with the
meticulous precision of a physics
teacher? Why did I feel as though I
had to put a strict noise limiter on
my voice? Throughout my life
restaurants have been places where
M
y wife is a great cook,
but like all true culinary
artists she has an
autocratic style in the
kitchen. When friends
are coming over and I stick my finger
in the jus, she invariably puts me in
charge of “ambience”, ie brushing cat
hair off chairs and selecting the
music. If there’s time, I’ll chip
hardened egg yolk off the table.
No guest ever compliments the
director of ambience, so I was
intrigued to read about Wanda,
a new company in Bruton, Somerset,
that promises to deliver it to your
door in a box. It was founded by
Natalie Jones, the owner of the
design shop Caro in Bruton, a town
that’s home to some very arty people
— and George Osborne.
“The idea is that Wanda is your
elusive, ideal host, taking care of
everything for you, from your
shopping list to setting the table, to
create an evening to remember,
whether at home or sending the box
to a friend to enjoy over a Zoom
call,” it says.
My wife didn’t like the sound of the
“elusive host”. I’m always getting told
off for sneaking into the garden to
check football results or play with
the dog as the clock strikes 1am and
the neighbours dig in for the long
haul. However, Wanda’s “curated
dinner experience” does promise to
banish the considerable stress of
thinking what a dinner party should
look and feel like.
This month it is selling the Mexico
box (£40, wandabox.co.uk). Inside is
a menu created by Merlin Labron-
Johnson from the Osip restaurant
in Bruton, a recipe and shopping list
for the ingredients, a fancy serving
bowl, a cake plate, two glasses, two
napkins, a small vase and a wall
hanging. Then, to go with your
cocktails, there’s a Mexican music
playlist, some chipotle chillies,
orange syrup and chilli salt. In the
future they will be offering Greek
and Vietnamese options.
Unlike a lot of posh food delivery
services that have recently launched,
the box contains no ingredients to
make the meal. Which is a bit like
holidaymakers booking a fortnight
in Spain being provided with
a sombrero, but no plane tickets.
Or, as my wife says: “A dinner party
with you in charge instead of me.”
Michael OdellThe perfect dinner
party in a box
(except for the food)
This month Wanda is
promising to create the
perfect ambience for a
Mexican-themed nightIt’s a bit
like being
sent a
sombrero
but no
plane
tickets
for a trip
to Spain
CHRIS FLOYD; CHRIS MCANDREW FOR THE TIMESto apologise to Fred, the maître d’ at
the time, who said, graciously:
“Don’t be silly, you should have
done a cartwheel too.” Considering
all I ordered was one small fishcake
(and buckets of Chilean wine), they
definitely had nothing to lose by
telling me to sod off.
I couldn’t afford the wine or the
fishcake; I survived on an income so
meagre I didn’t get a mortgage until
I was 45 — and I spent pretty much
everything I earned on eating out. I
don’t want to get all teary-eyed and
“Ahh, those were the days, son” —
but those were the days.
Restaurants’ Covid woes are not
entirely down to their one-time
customers’ fear of infection.
Parle says he hears his fellow
restaurateurs wailing that people
are not coming. “It’s not just fear or
financial insecurity. People have
realised they don’t need to eat
out all the time.”
They fell out of love with the
kerfuffle of being told where to sit,
how to behave and what the chef did
to the plate of food in front of them.
Parle has opened a pop-up restaurant
in the old Dock Kitchen to keep his
unoccupied staff employed.
His garden designer friend has
installed the dahlia garden that was
meant for a cancelled flower show.
He has installed a beehive, and he
gets produce sent up from a farm
shop in Kent. It’s dog-friendly. Prices
are modest. He says: “Now all I want
to do is feed people — people need
feeding well right now.”es
s
“A h
but
R
enti
cus
Pa
re
a
fi
r
oke
how
to t
Par
in t
uno
H
instthrew myself into the spirit of the age,
and once into a pile of white napkins
at Notting Hill’s notorious 192,
whooping that “I love snow”. Sheepish,
cringing and yes, hungover, the next
day I popped my head round the doorThe Ledbury in good times