One of them is his inability to reproduce a tune accurately. Whatever he sings or whistles, from the James Bond theme to the National Anthem, ends up as the theme from Match of the Day. He claims in self-defence that all tunes ARE actually Match of the Day, either slowed down, speeded up or played in a different key. He might be right, of course.
After a few glasses of port on an evening, he falls asleep dreaming of buying a villa in Portugal and finding his next door neighbour is Tiger Woods, or perhaps he’s being Benny Hill in those final credits, and the next day his pillow looks like someone’s been murdered in the bed. I call him the Vicar of Dribbly.
However, as it was his birthday recently (he won’t let me say which one in case Lesley Joseph is among my readership), I tried to look at him in a kindly light and took him for dinner at the Hotel Bristol’s posh restaurant, the Malinowa. In the Column Bar, where the prices have gone sky-high (£6 for a gin and tonic!) we bumped into Harold’s old pal from the Buffaloes, Fatty Fortescue, with his granddaughter. At least, I assumed she was his granddaughter, although it was a bit odd that she didn’t seem to speak English. And I really think Fatty should have made her wear something warmer on a cold January night than just a vest and thigh boots. Harold seemed quite concerned, and I had to drag him away eventually to the Malinowa dining room before they gave our table away.
I have to say the room is quite unprepossessing, after the grandeur of the Column Bar. It looks like a rather ordinary hotel dining room. However, the food and the service are top-notch. They bring you a complimentary “amuse-gueule” before your starter arrives, which is like a small starter itself. It was a piece of poached chicken with a bit of rocket salad on the side, drizzled with a raspberry coulis. Delicious. For starter I had two kinds of foie gras - one piece cooked in a filo pastry parcel, the other piece au naturel. Harold had eschewed the oysters and caviar (unpriced - asking for trouble) for langoustines, (which were translated as Dublin Bay prawns, although as everyone knows, n’est-ce-pas, “langoustines” are crayfish, and Dublin Bay prawns are translated in French menus by the Spanish “gambas”) in a “sauce of flowers”. Not sure what flowers were used, but the sauce tasted faintly of parma violets. Both dishes were beautifully presented, but after long admiration, taking of photographs, showing them to the people at the next table etc., they were duly demolished with the help of a bottle of 1994 Chateauneuf du Pape – at 300 zlotys, perhaps a little extravagant, but it was a special occasion after all.
A comfortable gap between courses was allowed before our mains were served in a flourish of silver chafing dishes: I had warm lobster salad on a bed of braised fennel and lasagne slices – heavenly! Harold went for a manly dish, the venison, which came plentiful and pink, just the way he likes it, in a rich gravy with not too many vegetables to distract him. It was all rather nouveau, so if you’re a fan of goĊonka you might find the portions a tad light. However, our belts were groaning by the end of the main course, which was a shame, as the Malinowa has the best cheese trolley I’ve seen this side of the French border. Luckily I didn’t order a dessert, since coffee comes with a selection of home made chocolate truffles, of which I forced myself to sample quite a few. Well, all of them, actually.
The prices at the Malinowa – with a few exceptions – are no worse than any other first class restaurant in Warsaw, and if you stick to one main course and a reasonable bottle of wine, a Beaujolais say at about 130 zlotys, with your complimentary hors-d’oeuvre and chockies you can have a superb meal without mortgaging the Range Rover. One last blipette didn’t spoil the evening, but I mention it as a warning in case you’re thinking of dining at the Malinowa. Harold let himself be talked into trying a so-called 50-year-old vodka from the liqueurs trolley. Frankly, this has to be scam of the century (although the century was less than a week old at the time). Although nicely coloured with burnt sugar to give it an old look, the fumes nearly succeeded where nose clippers had failed. Harold pulled a face as he drank it, and muttered something about drain fluid. I pulled an even worse face when I saw the bill. For 109 zlotys, he could have had a really nice cognac. But we live and learn. Vodka, unlike claret, and my Christmas cake, does not improve with age, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
