as you sit on the terrace looking out westwards towards the sunset. Alternatively, it is the ideal dining venue as you feast on Martin Black’s inspired new eating concept. This sensational bar and restaurant is destined to become a leading London landmark
.’
By seven o’clock, the cavernous room had begun to fill. The terrace was illuminated, but unfortunately it was too cold at this time of year to do justice to the Lloyd Loom furniture the restaurant’s designer had considered would lend a raffish colonial air to the space, in neat contrast to the harder edged main room. There, exposed steel girders had been installed in the roof and giant industrial metal lampshades hung from them, swinging their pools of light on to wooden tables. Precarious steel stools lined the leather bar, which was decorated by perforations, as if somebody had taken a hole-punch at random to it.
‘Don’t ask, just do,’ Tania hissed at Lee, who scurried off to provide whiskey for one of the town’s leading restaurant reviewers, despite Tania having announced earlier that there was to be
absolutely no
ordering off menu. What they saw was what they were getting – champagne cocktails, Slow Comfortable Screws and Gin Slings – or Perrier. The owners had talked about bringing in another brand of bottled water but Tania had told them that
nobody
would offer anything other than Perrier nowadays if they wanted to be taken seriously. That was, after all, the point of hiring her. She knew what was what. It was those little extras that made all the difference.
Sal pushed into the crowded room, flanked by Ollie and Robert from the
Herald
’s diary pages. Among the expensive tailoredjackets of the social crowd and the jazzy ties of the restaurant fraternity, the boys’ cheap grey suits and pasty faces made them stand out as hacks. It was a mark of respect among journalists not to care how you dressed, the insignificance of appearance a badge of honour.
‘Let’s get something to drink.’ Sal headed to the bar at the far side of the room, where she leapt on to a vacant stool and grabbed a cocktail. She drank most of it in one gulp. Ollie and Robert positioned themselves either side of her, leaning on the bar as they would in a pub, looking out at the crowd.
‘So, who’s here?’ Ollie took a deep drag on his cigarette.
‘They said Jennifer Beals was tipping up. She’s over here for
Flashdance
,’ Robert replied, narrowing his eyes to scour the room for the sight of a recognizable face that might offer them a paragraph for the page. ‘Let’s have a couple of drinks then head over to Kremlin. It’s just down the road. They’ve got Bryan Ferry coming by. Fitz called himself to tell me.’
Sal was watching Annie, now standing near the front door, some feet behind Tania, like a lady-in-waiting. She wasn’t carrying Tania’s handbag, was she? Her friend looked different, dressed in a pair of high-waisted black trousers and a white shirt with a lace collar, her hair scraped back in a ponytail which emphasized her straight nose and full lips. She looked much more professional than usual. Maybe it was the trousers. Sal knew Annie didn’t like to wear black, but it had been Tania’s orders that black and white should be the uniform of the night, in keeping with the industrial feel of the building. Tania’s long black Yohji Yamamoto coat had cost her a small fortune, but she had learnt it was well worth shelling out to look the part and, for an evening like this, that meant either Yohji or Comme.
The room was so full it seemed impossible that any more people could fit into it. Along the walls, single figures stood, some nursing a glass and staring with interest at the crowd, others disguising their solitary state by reading a menu or jotting something in a notebook. They clung to the sides of the room, unwilling to leave theprotection of the exposed brickwork and fling themselves into the centre, the jungle of the real party.
There,
.’
By seven o’clock, the cavernous room had begun to fill. The terrace was illuminated, but unfortunately it was too cold at this time of year to do justice to the Lloyd Loom furniture the restaurant’s designer had considered would lend a raffish colonial air to the space, in neat contrast to the harder edged main room. There, exposed steel girders had been installed in the roof and giant industrial metal lampshades hung from them, swinging their pools of light on to wooden tables. Precarious steel stools lined the leather bar, which was decorated by perforations, as if somebody had taken a hole-punch at random to it.
‘Don’t ask, just do,’ Tania hissed at Lee, who scurried off to provide whiskey for one of the town’s leading restaurant reviewers, despite Tania having announced earlier that there was to be
absolutely no
ordering off menu. What they saw was what they were getting – champagne cocktails, Slow Comfortable Screws and Gin Slings – or Perrier. The owners had talked about bringing in another brand of bottled water but Tania had told them that
nobody
would offer anything other than Perrier nowadays if they wanted to be taken seriously. That was, after all, the point of hiring her. She knew what was what. It was those little extras that made all the difference.
Sal pushed into the crowded room, flanked by Ollie and Robert from the
Herald
’s diary pages. Among the expensive tailoredjackets of the social crowd and the jazzy ties of the restaurant fraternity, the boys’ cheap grey suits and pasty faces made them stand out as hacks. It was a mark of respect among journalists not to care how you dressed, the insignificance of appearance a badge of honour.
‘Let’s get something to drink.’ Sal headed to the bar at the far side of the room, where she leapt on to a vacant stool and grabbed a cocktail. She drank most of it in one gulp. Ollie and Robert positioned themselves either side of her, leaning on the bar as they would in a pub, looking out at the crowd.
‘So, who’s here?’ Ollie took a deep drag on his cigarette.
‘They said Jennifer Beals was tipping up. She’s over here for
Flashdance
,’ Robert replied, narrowing his eyes to scour the room for the sight of a recognizable face that might offer them a paragraph for the page. ‘Let’s have a couple of drinks then head over to Kremlin. It’s just down the road. They’ve got Bryan Ferry coming by. Fitz called himself to tell me.’
Sal was watching Annie, now standing near the front door, some feet behind Tania, like a lady-in-waiting. She wasn’t carrying Tania’s handbag, was she? Her friend looked different, dressed in a pair of high-waisted black trousers and a white shirt with a lace collar, her hair scraped back in a ponytail which emphasized her straight nose and full lips. She looked much more professional than usual. Maybe it was the trousers. Sal knew Annie didn’t like to wear black, but it had been Tania’s orders that black and white should be the uniform of the night, in keeping with the industrial feel of the building. Tania’s long black Yohji Yamamoto coat had cost her a small fortune, but she had learnt it was well worth shelling out to look the part and, for an evening like this, that meant either Yohji or Comme.
The room was so full it seemed impossible that any more people could fit into it. Along the walls, single figures stood, some nursing a glass and staring with interest at the crowd, others disguising their solitary state by reading a menu or jotting something in a notebook. They clung to the sides of the room, unwilling to leave theprotection of the exposed brickwork and fling themselves into the centre, the jungle of the real party.
There,
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