In Soho

It’s Christmas and that means lunch in Soho with Rupert. Rupert is my godfather though I’ve never been sure why because he’s never brought me up in the ways of any church, always forgets my birthday and is the last person you’d think of calling in a crisis. Still, he was very good at taking me to age-inappropriate restaurants when I was little (I threw up calves liver and onions in the Savoy Grill Room when I was six) and he takes me out every year when term ends just before Christmas.

Today it was to L’Escargot and because I’m still feeling a bit fat after it all, here’s what I had: crab lasagne with lemon and fennel and a ‘cappuccino’ of shellfish (this was frothy soup in a cup); roast sea bass with herb gnocchi (which I don’t like and hadn’t spotted lurking on the menu) and a wild mushroom sauce; pear tarte tatin and blackberry crumble (because I couldn’t decide between the two); champagne, half a bottle of Pouilly-Fume and two glasses of amaretto. After which I sat hiccoughing happily under the Picasso sketches and listened to stories about the various ways my dad was disreputable as a young man.

On the way home Rupert decided he was going to buy me a present from Agent Provocateur. I did about eight seconds of “Oh no, you shouldn’t really” but never actually stopped heading towards the shop door. I now have two very beautiful, very expensive slips, one white and one black, filmy and sheer with lace trim, slinky and sexy and adult – not in a sleazy way but just grown-up sexy. Sadly tonight I have no one to wear them for but I’ve hung them on hangers hooked over the top of the wardrobe door so I can gaze at them.

Comments

[D&L]

It's kind of weird reading your post today. When he lived in London my D worked on Greek Street, back when it was even less reputable than it is now. (His stories of the strip clubs with color-coded walls and "strippers" posing on little stages, changing positions during brief blackouts, are amazing to me.)

Anyway, I have a sense of the real, three dimensional Lucy walking into L'Escargot. And Agent Provocateur... if its the one in Soho, I've been there. I can picture you there. There's an odd feeling of one degree of separation.

One thing is unreal, though: Having a louche godfather buying whispy slips for one. That I don't have. My AP purchases have been sadly limited, though we have one here in our NYC SoHo and I am frequently tempted.

L