London Nuptials: Ten Years Ago

[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid:  February 2, 2011]

Back from Paris, and I suddenly remember why I'm in London.  By which I mean, of course, that I read ahead in the diary and was reminded that I had been invited to a wedding.  Carolyn and Michael - celebrating about now, it follows logically, their tenth anniversary.

Some eating first, though.  I comforted myself on my return from Paris by eating at Quo Vadis, still a rather good Marco Pierre White operation in those days (it had been established, of course, in the 1920s as Leoni's Quo Vadis;  John Logie Baird invented television upstairs).

Oysters with champagne jelly as a light appetizer, followed by a weighty braised and stuffed pig's trotter with potato purée and a bottle of '97 Stag's Leap Petit Syrah.  Just something refreshing to finish, a  prune and Armagnac ice cream.  And to bed.  This leg of the journey must have been personal, as I find myself staying in one of the little rooms over Manzi's fish restaurant in Leicester Square.  One of the best bargains in London.

With a friend the next evening, unconnected with the wedding, at a fine old tavern near Hampstead Heath, The Flask.  Afterwards, to Villa Bianca, owned by the sister of the Evening Standard's restaurant critic, Fay Maschler.  I wonder if she ever reviewed it.  A simple beef carpaccio was followed by mixed meats, whether frito or bollito I really can't remember.  A bottle of chardonnay and one of Chianti, because we were thirsty.

The stag evening for the groom was an entirely sedate affair.  A thoroughly nice man, but not a streak of wildness in him.  We ate at RSJ, a restaurant behind the National Theatre on the south bank.  Rather British.  Potato and leek soup, then rib of beef with rösti potatoes, cheeses, and a drop of Bourgeuil, 1996.

I managed to find time the next day for an appointment at my preferred gentleman's groomery on Jermyn Street, and to have my fancy waistcoat adjusted at Favourbrook (yes, just an extra inch please).  To Chiswick for dinner, with the only people I know there.  Pug was the restaurant, serving the kind of fare which the original wave of gastro-pubs popularized (I am weary of explaining that, contrary to the impression one might receive in New York, gastro-pubs precisely did not serve British pub food.

On this occasion, a fig and goat cheese tart, then baked shoulder of lamb.  Wines from down under - a New Zealand sauvignon blanc and Mud Hollow shiraz from somewhere in Australia.

The wedding was set for Saturday evening.  After revving up on espresso at Bar Italia, I spent an innocent day at the London Library before donning my crushed velvet frock-coat (at the bride's specific request) and heading to St Ethelreda's, a church of astonishing antiquity on Ely Place.  The deed done, it was a short walk for the wedding party to Cafe du Marché, a reliable Smithfield Market bistro where the couple rightly thought we'd get better food than from some wedding caterer or other.

Salmon fishcake, daube of beef, and this is the only wedding I can remember where a cheese plate was served.  Then apple pie, speeches, more to drink.  And back to the hotel to pack for my flight home.