Blitzi Mews has become a sort of half way house for visiting waifs and strays of late. A few weeks back, Ma Cortez was in town for much theatre (seeing as no other fuckers were going, bloody Olympics) and for the bloody Olympics. Then Dawson’s Creek came to play, tagging a London stop off onto the end of a truly epic European family ‘vay-cay’. Lil Red crossed over with DC for a bit (which led to a rather messy night in a Covent Garden brasserie avec moi, Blondie and Eton Boy) and then this weekend we entertained Blondie’s sister. In short, our hostessing skills are second to none, and we are both completely knackered.
BUT, that’s so not the focus of this story.
Over the course of all these ‘visits’, it became necessary to sample the delights of South West London local restaurant culture, lest Blondie actually start crying in front of the fireplace waiting for her fairy godmother to come and save her. While DC and Lil Red were here, we discovered a pub which seemed completely perfect. Good wine list, tasty Mac and Cheese on the menu, damn fine waiter.
If I’m honest, it was mostly about the waiter.
Which is why, on Friday night, when Blondie and I were slightly tipsy on post work drinkies and musing on a dinner destination, our thoughts went immediately to the old faithful pub-that-does-food on the corner.
Turns out the food was not as good as we remembered (how hammered were we?) and the good wine had run out, but the waiter was still hot (priorities).
In actuality, Blondie’s food was so bad (well, she will order pigeon fer cryin out loud) that we had to complain to the nice waiter, and then refuse to pay, and then request that the service charge was removed from the bill because we didn’t want the nice (read: hawt) waiter to have to share it with the skag head kitchen staff who definitely would have spat in that free dessert they’d offered in exchange for the mouldy pigeon earlier.
By this point, we were a bit sloshed. A couple of bottles of white between us, after one or three double vodkas in the pub in town, meant that Blondie and I were feeling a little more brazen than usual, so when we forked over a tenner for the hot waiter’s tip, we decided to leave him a little note, which read something similar to this:
To the nice waiter man, buy yourself some dinner – just don’t have the pigeon, it’s nasty. Actually, don’t buy it here because you’ll get naff all for your money. Oh, and Ritzi would like you to call her, here’s her number. Xxx
Or something to that end (I’m sure Blondie, the author of said masterpiece, will correct me later and I can edit).
So the next morning, a little worse for wear, the girls and I found ourselves on a train enroute to Covent Garden (me to the gym, them to brunch at Bill’s – fatties) laughing heartily about the fact that we can clearly never go into the pub-that-does-food ever again.
Aside, of course, from the fact that a little after midnight I’d received a text from a number I did not know…
‘Hi Ritzi, loved the note. Hope you girls had a great evening? (apart from the pigeon) x’
I chose to omit that fact from the conversation until a later date. Some levels of girlish squealing should not be heard around the West End until after brunch.