the Carnaby

Never again flag raised and brandished with a flourish.

Met El at Oxford Circus after work. The throng of people was so heavy I was becoming infuriated. The elbow started to protrude, and all flexibility in my body seemed to disappear as I went on a bodycheck collecting rampage. El had her heavy, might-as-well-be-a-motor, bike with her and shared the sentiment readily.

We went down Argyll street, balked at the mock tudor of Liberty's and took a left in search of food. As she had recently overdosed on rice, she wasn't in the mood for anything remotely oriental, so was suggesting Bella Pasta and Cafe Uno, which I summarily rejected. The next candidate looked like another coffee shop, but I reluctantly went inside to gaze at the menu and saw that it was good. Asked for a table for two - non smoky please, only to be rewarded with "the only table left is in deep in smoking territory" so we went next door instead. The Carnaby. Menu looked limited, but seemed to do the trick. I cased the joint as El waited. It was dead. Empty, tumbleweed, the works. Not a good sign. I related this, and she was overjoyed - especially after our overcrowding experience a few minutes ago.

We were seated in an alcove, and the maitre d' asked if we wanted water. We agreed. "Still? Sparkling?". Long pause. "Tap?" we asked in unison. He made a shrill laugh and trotted off. We made oversized air hook-noses to Semint the moment. A retarded looking bap-faced Czech took our wine order, and the air noses were out in force again as we decided wine tonight would be by the glass, not the bottle.

I ordered the artichoke and asparagus salad with poached egg and infused truffles for a started, while she went for a caprese salad. I was soon to discover this means tomato surprise. She went for the artichoke salad for a main, while I went for fillet steak with foie gras crust, "no root vegetables please" and jus. Opted for thick cut chips (they didn't offer thin) and asparagus hollandaise as sides. I asked for ice for our (tap) water.

Another table of customers arrived, and El, looking behind me, said "Jeremy Beadle is here." I was sucked in by her serious tone, and was thoroughly expecting to see a police uniformed, bushy haired, withered handed freak of D list proportions walk to the table. I was disappointed.
Having been acclimatised to the silence offered by only the most deceased of restaurants, we were irked, dare I say offended by the noise of their conversation.

The salads arrived, and all looked well. I started on the greenery and artichokes, preferring to leave the poached egg and asparagus highlights to the end. When I did make a start on the egg, I realised it had been hard-poached.
Never seen anything like it. Sent it back. Pondered walking out, but El was happy with her salad. She finished her tomato surprise and we twiddled thumbs waiting for the replacement. Twiddle, twiddle, summon. It arrived shortly after, all underdone; flobbering about like the three-minute egg it was. Decided to keep this one, but summoned a waiter to tell them El's main had better not resemble either of these two paltry attempts at poaching an egg. I mean, you're starting out in the catering business. Day one, you're going to learn once and for all how to poach a fucking egg. It's not as if they were busy or anything. Thought about marching on out of there again, but El was up for taking a chance on the main course nevertheless.

Out came a kitchen hand. He may have been head chef (probably lone chef) for all we knew or cared, but he got his education, and promised attempt #3 along with our mains. I also pointed out the distinct lack of any truffle in evidence. He noted this.

Some minutes later, our salads arrived. The egg looked perfect this time round, but alas the truffle no-show remained. My fillet steak was brought out immediately, and I had to teeter these ridiculous 14" plates on our small table just to fit them on. The thick cut fries were underfried, but edible. The steak was excellent, and the asparagus hollandaise done to perfection. Things were starting to turn around.

Polished that lot off and we were asked for the dessert menu. We'd pre-chosen earlier and asked for the baked alaska to share, i.e. with two spoons (it was that retarded looking one). She came back a few seconds later, with the dessert menu, saying "lime cheesecake, right?" "No," (you spacker) "The baked alaska? It's on the specials menu? with two spoons, ok?" "Ok." "o-kay".

It looked so good on the menu. We started tucking into this thing, and it soon became obvious that we'd need pneumatic drills or something. Baked? Freezer burns maybe. It was solid. If it wasn't for the meringue outside and the silly fruits, which remained uneaten around the plate, you'd have been forgiven for thinking they'd tried to serve us arctic rolls from school days.

We battled our way through it, and then it was "Tea or coffee?" "Bill."

El started taking after her father by going over the bill with a fine toothcomb, looking for any "mistakes". She noticed they'd put on a 12.5% service charge, and while we were thinking about walking earlier, had come to a decision about the tipping situation. Service charges are offensive at the best of times, and anything over the English default of 10% is more than a little cheeky, even if all the restaurants in London conspire to do the same thing. As she didn't have any cash on her, we got the £30 card transaction out of the way and said we'd pay the rest in cash. The rest would have been £35 or so, but I slapped down £30 and was ready to go. El needed a little more time to get her things together, and as she was doing this, the maitre d' quickly made a grab for the cash. No grace, no decorum. He walked past us to the kitchen and back without flinching and we thought he must get this all the time. As we were leaving, however, he said, "Hang on a minute, this should be thirty five quid"
"No, " I pointed at the service charge, "I think you'll find this is optional."
"But you should say!"
"I just did."