I've had one glass of (overpriced) red wine, and he's had a beer while we watched an intense film at a cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue. It's past 9pm. We're on the hunt for food.
Sniffing, memory-squeezing, wandering. Grub-finding in Soho is harder than it looks sometimes. It's 9.20pm and we're dangerously close to whining, "But we're in Soho! The centre of Lahndahn! The world at our fingertips!" Too much choice and not enough.
No matter, nights like these are what Polpetto are made for. We half-run to The French House. I've been before for work schmoozes (the nice kind where I go somewhere I like rather than the kind where I do any actual work) so I know you cannot book, which makes it perfect for a relaxed, drawn out, accidentally-drink-quite-a-lot-before-you-eat evening.
"Sit down boy, I will handle this one". I install him at the bar and nip upstairs to give the waiter my mobile number. This is so he can ring me when a table is free - I am not a hussy.
You cannot have a pint while waiting downstairs in the French House, however much you cry. And do not make the mistake of assuming the barmaid merely did not hear you ask for a pint and say it louder. They do NOT serve pints, only halves. "I saw Paloma Faith in here once," I tell him again.
He has a half of something. I have a cider, in a glass that looks bigger than a half. It is a weeknight and it is busy, we are lucky to find our seats. It is lovely where we are sat, the big windows are open on to the street, the pub feels cosy behind us. We finish our drinks, argue briefly about me going for a cigarette, then my phone is ringing.
Upstairs, there's room for maybe 25, 30 covers. The tables are very close together, and it feels a little like sitting in someone's attic. Retro, dusty-but-not-really, dimly lit. Previously, I've landed tables next to the windows, looking out at a flag moving lazily beneath, eating lovely food and supping wine. Those tables say 'Yeah man, I live in London and eat here and this is what I do'. This time, we are at a table that says nothing, because you cannot hear it over the conversations of those sat an inch away from you on either side. This is not a problem when you are fuzzily drunk. Sir, a bottle of house red please and thank you.
The menus are the place mats. We peruse the array of Italian small plates. I, having downed a little more wine, am very enthusiastic about the courgette fries. We order a few more dishes too - sweetbread meatballs, a Devon crab dish, something with squid. The food comes as and when it's ready, and I like to eat like this. It's relaxing.
The first two come extremely quickly. Joy! He says the meatballs are over-seasoned. I don't want to concur because this is my recommendation and I like it, but they are. He begins to mumble misgivings about the place being too cool for school. I bat them away and pour more wine.
The two dishes are long gone, and we wait. The wine is disappearing fast. We are deep in alcohol-tinged conversation.
"Oh my god, are you having a little drunk cry? You are tiddled. You're panini-ed!"
"No!" Sniff. "I feel fat."
"I feel you've had too much to drink."
"You should never say that to a lady!"
"What? That's not some well known proverb or saying!"
"Shut up! Shall we have dessert?"
"Stop telling me to shut up, you drunken wench."
We realise our other dishes have not materialised. The waiter comes over and asks if we want the bill, a little surprised we should choose to eat so little. We ask for the rest of what we ordered, then the wine is gone, so we finish our meal with water. It is fine, (except the courgette fries, which are fantastic) and the waiter is nice enough not to mention my drunk face.
We fall back into the outside world. "Cocktails!" I cry. "No" he says. "You're battered. Not a good idea." But it is too late - the cloud has lifted and I am happy drunk on a summers' eve with no work tomorrow.
We stumble to Café Boheme two minutes away. We have a cocktail each. I choose the first fizzy one I see. Now he's finished his gin martini, he is well on his way too. "Listen, seriously why do you never do the washing up? Seriously?" I order another cocktail for myself, and a Bloody Mary with gin for him and go for another cigarette. I come back in and he's forgotten about the housework and the barman is smiling at us. We grin inanely back and leave for the tube, boozy and full.
"Sit down boy, I will handle this one". I install him at the bar and nip upstairs to give the waiter my mobile number. This is so he can ring me when a table is free - I am not a hussy.
You cannot have a pint while waiting downstairs in the French House, however much you cry. And do not make the mistake of assuming the barmaid merely did not hear you ask for a pint and say it louder. They do NOT serve pints, only halves. "I saw Paloma Faith in here once," I tell him again.
He has a half of something. I have a cider, in a glass that looks bigger than a half. It is a weeknight and it is busy, we are lucky to find our seats. It is lovely where we are sat, the big windows are open on to the street, the pub feels cosy behind us. We finish our drinks, argue briefly about me going for a cigarette, then my phone is ringing.
Upstairs, there's room for maybe 25, 30 covers. The tables are very close together, and it feels a little like sitting in someone's attic. Retro, dusty-but-not-really, dimly lit. Previously, I've landed tables next to the windows, looking out at a flag moving lazily beneath, eating lovely food and supping wine. Those tables say 'Yeah man, I live in London and eat here and this is what I do'. This time, we are at a table that says nothing, because you cannot hear it over the conversations of those sat an inch away from you on either side. This is not a problem when you are fuzzily drunk. Sir, a bottle of house red please and thank you.
The menus are the place mats. We peruse the array of Italian small plates. I, having downed a little more wine, am very enthusiastic about the courgette fries. We order a few more dishes too - sweetbread meatballs, a Devon crab dish, something with squid. The food comes as and when it's ready, and I like to eat like this. It's relaxing.
The first two come extremely quickly. Joy! He says the meatballs are over-seasoned. I don't want to concur because this is my recommendation and I like it, but they are. He begins to mumble misgivings about the place being too cool for school. I bat them away and pour more wine.
The two dishes are long gone, and we wait. The wine is disappearing fast. We are deep in alcohol-tinged conversation.
"Oh my god, are you having a little drunk cry? You are tiddled. You're panini-ed!"
"No!" Sniff. "I feel fat."
"I feel you've had too much to drink."
"You should never say that to a lady!"
"What? That's not some well known proverb or saying!"
"Shut up! Shall we have dessert?"
"Stop telling me to shut up, you drunken wench."
We realise our other dishes have not materialised. The waiter comes over and asks if we want the bill, a little surprised we should choose to eat so little. We ask for the rest of what we ordered, then the wine is gone, so we finish our meal with water. It is fine, (except the courgette fries, which are fantastic) and the waiter is nice enough not to mention my drunk face.
We fall back into the outside world. "Cocktails!" I cry. "No" he says. "You're battered. Not a good idea." But it is too late - the cloud has lifted and I am happy drunk on a summers' eve with no work tomorrow.
We stumble to Café Boheme two minutes away. We have a cocktail each. I choose the first fizzy one I see. Now he's finished his gin martini, he is well on his way too. "Listen, seriously why do you never do the washing up? Seriously?" I order another cocktail for myself, and a Bloody Mary with gin for him and go for another cigarette. I come back in and he's forgotten about the housework and the barman is smiling at us. We grin inanely back and leave for the tube, boozy and full.
Polpetto, upstairs at The French House, 49 Dean Street, London (approx. £50 dinner for two with wine)
Café Boheme, 13 Old Compton Street, London
