Cheyne Walk Brasserie redux
Yesterday was Pancake Day. Last year on Pancake Day, my first knowing Antoine and his family, we went to his parents’ house after work and stood by the stove flipping pancakes from three pans at once while his parents watched, laughed, and took pictures. I surprised myself with my abilities to judge and flip the perfect pancake. There is a photo in his parents’ kitchen of us, side by side, conferring on whether it was flip time for one pancake or another; I look very serious about something very frivolous, very much like a giant child in my Transformers t-shirt.
Last night I missed all that to have dinner with a not-so-old, but trusted, friend. We were booked in to the Cheyne Walk Brasserie, and I looked forward all day to the sublime, non-alcoholic apple mojitos. The bartender regretfully informed me upon arrival that they were out of fresh mint, so could not serve any mojitos that night. It was 7PM. Considering the prices there, someone should have been dispatched to Waitrose or Sainsbury’s for some fresh mint. Perhaps it was all a ruse to shift me onto champagne cocktails, of which I had at least ten.
As a rule, I have a difficult time relaxing after work. Antoine has actually urged me to join a private members’ club or something, so I have somewhere to stop off and chill out on the way home, instead of hitting the door still in work mode. The Cheyne Walk Brasserie actually feels like a private members’ club, and the combination of the gorgeous upstairs salon that overlooks the Thames and the glittering bridge that spans it, all duck egg coloured walls and Kool Aid-red light fixtures, and the company of my friend had me instantly relaxed. (I didn’t start on the champagne until we sat down to eat. Honest.)
I wasn’t in the mood for meat, which is bad news at the Cheyne Walk Brasserie, whose menu is dominated by meat and fish, all grilled so fragrantly over a fire in the middle of the dining room. What I was in the mood for was celebrity spottings, and I was rewarded with two crown jewels, each sat next to the other: Sir David Frost and Viscount Linley, Princess Margaret’s son and the Queen’s nephew. Linley was surprisingly cute and smiley. It is so rare to see a privileged member of the aristocracy who looks pleased with his lot in life.
I swiped a stack of cocktail napkins, white with the brasserie’s blue poodle embossed on a corner, from our table in the salon. They’re for Antoine’s mother, whose voice whispered in my ear that it’s okay to take some paper napkins if your dinner partner is tipping in triple digits. They might never let me back in if they find out, but what with the lack of fresh mint and all, I might be able to live with that.