For those of you who don’t know it, it’s the swish-o lawyer/politician hangout on Spring St, next to the Princess Theatre. When you book, they say in posh tones: ‘And are you attending a show?’ With low lighting from little chichi lamps, wood panelling, a wall of mirrors and harlequin floor, you feel like you’re, well, not in Melbourne at any rate. Particularly when they take your coat when you walk in, and waft the white napkin onto your lap as though they were Pavova dancing the Dying Swan. I also opened the door for a waiter on the way to the loo, and he said ‘thank you, Miss’.
Boy did we feast last night. I had a slow-roasted duck leg arranged on a bed of colcannon (fancy mashed spud), confit and a roast onion, and a big dried piece of prosciutto rising out of the middle like a sail made of delicious animal parts. I had a couple of glasses of red, and MK enjoyed the San Pellegrino (the only thing she drinks, pretty much). She had some squid ink tortellini filled with scampi, arranged artfully on a bed of tomato sauce, with some green bits dotted around.
For dessert, I had chocolate blini (I thought blinis were like little pikelets, but this was an über-rich soufflé) with sour cherries, cream and chocolate glace. The MK had a pear tart (more of a triangle-shaped pastry) with roasted almond slivers and caramel icecream. Every bite was magnificent.
I had long said to myself that I would take the MK out somewhere fancy when my business started to take off. With respect to the long years she has non-judgementally listened to my bluster and bitching, all the while shouting me dinner, treating me to delicious delights from the Richmond Plaza deli or generally commentating awards shows. When I started to rant and foam about how she’d always listened to my financial woes, how they were finally coming to an end after years and years, her rejoinder was typically MK; dry and to the point.
“Why Boo,” she replied. “That is called…friendship!”