The Times Magazine 53of booze and music and girls in feathers and
says, “Well, well, if you gotta go, that’s the
way to do it.”
Hot young staff called me by name, took my
coat and shopping bags, and led me through
warrens of cavorting pre-Christmas rabbits
into an ancient vault of medieval brick and
Hanoverian plaster, to a seat at a crowded
bar in front of serried ranks of performing
bartenders, one of whom, in no time, had me
slugging a manhattan, on the rocks, “Perfect”,
with three cherries, and already simply dazzled.
“This place is amazing!” said Esther,
who was conducted to my side a few minutes
later by the handsome reception guy I’d
asked to look out for her. “It’s staffed entirely
by supermodels!”
She ordered her manhattan straight up,
because that is how she likes them, and then
they swooshed us through to what I believe is
called the Brasserie and sat us at a lovely oval
table from which we both had a view of an
open kitchen and, in front of that, a stage.
Hmmm, I thought. A stage.
“Aloha!” said a gorgeous young waiter,
in a white tuxedo with a black quiff and a
dagger earring dangling saucily from his left
lobe, springing into view in front us. “My
name is Sam, short for Samantha. You look
like you’re good for drinks. Can I get you
water for the table?”
“Aloha!” I replied. And then, wary of
cultural appropriation in all its forms, I asked,
“Er, are you Hawaiian?”
“No, silly!” He laughed. “I’m from Bangkok,
via the Philippines.”
“And you’re really called Samantha?”
“Well, no. My mom called me ‘Dowell’
as in, like, ‘Do Well’, but then people call me
Dowell (*rhymes with trowel) so...”
In the blue-black penumbra, I scanned the
menu with my phone torch and was impressed
by its blend of high seriousness and daft fun.
Kind of top-end Californio-NewYorkan with
la-di-da Mediterranean inserts. Lots of classic
seafood, from whelks and oysters to coquilles
St-Jacques and sole meunière, but then also
globe-trotting raw treatments such as that
familiar Hispano-Japanese speciality, “hamachi
ceviche”. Steaks of a dozen sorts (how the
locution “filet mignon” makes my skin crawl),
multiple salads and sauces, pastas, roast
chicken, caviar, “truffled” this and “pulled”
that... Something, in short, for everyone.
Which usually means nothing for me.
But on this occasion, this once, it was all
excellent, quite excellent. From the warm
crusty bread Samantha brought out first,
with butter and a perfectly roasted whole
garlic to smear upon it, and three big slices of
brilliant beef tomato, beautifully seasoned, to
flop across the garlic, to the aforementioned
hamachi ceviche (£15), served in a scallop shell
with sweet potato crisps.
By this point, the slick, tuxedoed band had
struck up and a twinkly crooner of about my
age was banging out 1950s Vegas standards
with aplomb. Sam recommended an excellent
chardonnay and we slooshed it down with
tuna tartare, avocado and crispy wontons
dressed with soy and ginger (£16) and the
“colossal shrimp cocktail” (£17), which wastwo U7s (the largest in the silly American
shellfish grading scale) served hot off the
plancha with horseradish cocktail sauce,
three good (if pubby) short rib croquettes
(£12) and two truly fantastic crispy cod tacos
in soft shells with pico de gallo (£13). Esther
had “the best moules frites I’ve ever had”
and from somewhere came some excellent
charred Brussels sprouts (weirdly) and I can’t
remember my main because as I sat there
under the gigantic disco chandelier, already
thinking, “This is what people think my life is
like all the time but it never is,” I noticed that
the dancer in front of the band was suddenly
wearing much less of her sequined black
evening dress than she had been.
“She’s a stripper,” said Esther, approvingly.
“No, she isn’t,” I said.
“Well, a burlesque dancer, then.”
“Nope. She isn’t going to take all her
clothes off. No way. I’ll bet you anything.”
But by this time – the guy was singing
Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps as I recall – the lady
was down to what I think is called a “bustier”,
and I began to wonder if I was losing my bet.
Well, I say “losing”... And even when she put
her top hat in front of her norks and whipped
the bustier off, I was sure she wasn’t going
to take the hat away. And then she did. And
there they were. Big round expensive boobs,
attached to her impressive, gym-hardened
dancer’s body, with tassels on the end that she
swirled around and around as I chowed into
my taco and spilt battered fish in my lap.
The table of thirtysomething masters of the
universe next to us applauded politely, as did a
couple of octogenarian ladies with big hairdos
and assorted admirably diverse couples and
groups of four. There was no whooping or
hollering. Nothing vulgar. Just good food, good
music and great tits. We had pudding, and
then a little later, while the band played Come
Fly with Me, she came back all in pink feathers
and did it again.
It reminded me of the early days of
Terence Conran’s Mezzo in the 1990s, when
a mate of mine ran the music and I went
along about three nights a week because jazz
and good food (well, survivable food) were
fashionable again for the first time since
Quaglino’s Princess Margaret heyday in the
1950s. But here we had hipster chefs with bare
forearms chargrilling things right there behind
the grand piano and double bass, and it was all
just as 2022 as food and jazz can be.
Apart from the breasts. The breasts aren’t
very 2022. Or maybe they are. Maybe it’s
me that isn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know
anything any more. nThe Maine
6 Medici Courtyard,
20 Hanover Square,
London W1
(020 3432 2192;
themainemayfair.com)
Cooking 8
Service 9
Vibes 9
Score 8.67
Price We got out
for less than £200
after a truly special
evening. Amazing.