On Monday morning I walked up the river to Richmond with Bertie. Bertie made frequent stops.
Bertie likes to play with other dogs and go down to the foreshore, have a paddle and gallop around in the mud until his white socks are black. I stopped briefly to watch a woman swimming in the middle of the river, chortling at the police. There was a larger police presence than I thought such an incident deserved but these delays had a silver lining. I had not been to The White Cross since before lockdown so, as it was noon, I thought we should drop by after a walk that had taken 3 1/2 hours on a warm morning. The staff seemed unprepared, as indeed they were; it was their re-opening.
Yesterday I tubed to Piccadilly to re-boot the retail economy. First stop the bank to pay in a small cheque from the Inland Revenue. Next into Fortnum & Mason to restock with Patum Peperium and Cassis Gin, the latter an impulse buy. Top tip: do not buy the beautifully packaged F&M own brand anchovy relish; it costs three times more than the original. Then I tacked south to Geo Trumper to stock up on smells – not strictly necessary – before docking at a friend’s club for lunch.
How is Clubland adapting? A one way system operated around the rooms, albeit with a few bottlenecks. We went out to the garden for drinks ordered by my host by a text message to the bar we had just walked past. Perhaps we could have either written or given our orders as we passed but I think the idea is to cater for re-ordering once in the garden. Incidentally The White Cross had instructions about pre-booking tables and ordering using the Young’s app. I cut through the red tape and ordered a pint at an outside table and the contactless machine.
If you are interested I had a Tanqueray Martini, straight up with a twist. Then we went upstairs and on the landing there’s a small temporary exhibition about a piano Beethoven was given – the highlight is a facsimile of his letter of thanks. Social distancing seemed not to be a problem and we sat at an agreeably discreet distance from the other lunchers. My host pointed out a Spectator contributor, a senior lawyer and a European aristocrat – the first two of whom were not dressed as smartly as I would have expected. The last had already proved his credentials by greeting me as he arrived at the club while I was lurking on the steps having got there before my ETA.
Fortunately lunch did not have to be ordered electronically. As is usual in Clubland there was an unpriced menu for me and one with more information for my host. He annotated our disposable menus with our choices in the food dept and his rather generous choices in the drinking dept. I had mushrooms on toast with a soft poached egg and truffle infused bechamel sauce. We had a good Mâcon that when swilled had legs as long as Jerry Hall. Simplicity is important, so next I had vegetarian ravioli garnished with a sprig of lambs’ lettuce – one doesn’t want to make oneself poorly by overdoing the greens. The accompanying 2011 Nuit St Georges was more complex and deeply satisfying.
You may be astonished, but the fact of the matter is that when I was pressed to have pudding, savouries, port, brandy or anything I desired, I declined because I was full – enough is as good as a feast.