OPENER / ANDREW TUCK
Face the music
- A well-seasoned restaurant designer or the talented owner of a jumping city dining room shares the skill set of a good choreographer. They each know how to create magical drama from the swinging open of a kitchen door, the scurry of waiters transporting plates of eagerly awaited food, and the conducting arm of the maître d’.
And they also understand how to cast you, the diner, in the performance. They engineer your entrance, they get you to weave your way to the table, they use lighting to create some mystery along the way. And if it’s the sort of joint that welcomes starry guests, they make sure that any starlets, singers and players can only make it to what are considered the best tables by easing their way across the entire restaurant, leaving a mist of whispers in their wake – “Oh, look, it’s that woman from the movie we just saw.” “Isn’t that, you know, the man who just went out with what’s her name?” So just as much as a memorable white wine or delicious fish direct from the market, choreography is what makes you fall in love with a restaurant.
But now? Well, a good old-school joint used by Monocle in London has decided to halve the number of tables to make sure that everyone has enough space for physical distancing. Waiting there for a lunch guest, I missed not being able to pick up on the tendrils of wafting conversation from other tables and, worse, on my marooned table I felt oddly exposed – like being a forgotten guest at an under-attended wedding supper. And there’s no chance of any choreographed dancing.
And then I went with Tyler for lunch at the River Café this week, in part to mark many years of friendship. Yes, the waiting team wear masks and, yes, they take your temperature as you arrive but somehow the drama, the choreography of the place, has remained intact. On the sunny terrace you still move between the packed tables to find your spot; the staff play their roles to synchronised perfection; and co-founder, chef and host – Ruth Rogers – is there keeping everything tight. But none of the lunchtime diners miss a beat either – there are a lot of seemingly nonchalant, but actually super aware, arrivals and departures. This is not the moment to trip up on the way to the loo. And, of course, the food is sublime. The dance goes on.
- Gyms reopened in England last weekend. I have been back twice – on the first occasion there were three other people, the next time five. Half the running machines and exercise contraptions are now decorated with giant “do not use” signs and you find yourself doing a lot of cleaning with disinfectant wipes. But actually, for me, this is no hardship as I’m rather content when doing any cleaning. Indeed I can see the potential for a workout class that would help both the gym-goer and the gym – a mix of dusting, mopping and vacuuming done to a sunny disco soundtrack. It could be called “Buffing to Get Buff” or “Pecs and Polish”.
But where have all the gym bunnies gone? I can hear the answer as I write this on my roof terrace to the dawn chorus of two neighbours skipping in the street and the passing patter of numerous lockdown running converts. People want to be in the sun. Life has been pushed outdoors and it is reluctant to come back in again. It’s another part of life that’s dancing to a different tune.