And last night, The Boy won The Best Boyfriend award. How could such a captious and sardonic wench be gratified so, I hear you wonder. (Perhaps I do myself a slight injustice in that description, but you get the gist). Well, he took me to the ballet. Swan Lake no less, at The Royal Opera House. Preceded by dinner in their Balcony restaurant, overlooking the bar-atrium.
Yes, I know, outrageously generous of him. And I am, in turn, outrageously appreciative to him. The ballet was completely bewitching. I find any ballet bewitching, but, it was a combination of the dancing with that music. Everyone recognises the overture from Swan Lake. I would wager a guess that most little girls at some point during their childhood either owned, or knew someone that owned, a small ‘jewellery box’, that when you opened the lid had a small plastic ballerina pirouetting on her tiny plinth, to the vaguely discordant chimes of Swan Lake. And so, as the orchestra struck up their first ‘megamix’ of the Swan Lake music before the curtain lifted, I found my whole body prickling, my eyes full of water, and my insides trying to burst out. And that’s before the dancers came on. As I tried to explain to The Boy, watching ballet theoretically ‘makes me cry’, but not in a soppy, feminine, I’m-about-to-faint way. It is simply my body, or rather my senses, being completely overwhelmed by what I am watching, and what I am hearing from the live orchestra. Men have their Page Threes, I have the ballet.
And for The Boy, it was only his second time watching ballet, and quite different from the first time some months ago, which was a series of shorter ballets. By all accounts, it went down well with him too. Our conversation largely focussed on the shape and tone of the dancers’ bodies – to me it is a bizarre self-sacrifice to the art of ballet. A 25 or 30 year old body, no matter how fit, does not bend in the same way that a ballet dancer’s does. It is the years and years of training when young that has manipulated how their body developed, and has resulted in a body that moves in an unnatural (yet exceedingly beautiful) manner. One shudders to think of the pain they go through whilst training, and when they stop dancing and their bodies seek to adjust to a ‘normal’ range of movement.
It is not surprising therefore, against such a glorious assault of the senses that the dinner was totally unbewtiching. A three-course meal from a set menu, which, when read, promises the diner seasonal food and pleasingly crafted plates. I should have known not to have hoped so much.
Starters
Me: Venison carpaccio, with pickled pear and parmesan.
The Boy: Crab mayonnaise with sourdough toast.
Verdict: Uninspiring.
The venison slices were tiny, maximum 4cm diameter, and completely unseasoned. The parmesan was the type that comes ready-shaved, in plastic tubes from the supermarket. And the pickled pear was as vinegary as a Somerset farmer’s onions.
The crab was perhaps slightly better – purely by the fact that they had laced it with a small tonne of salt. However, I can’t deny that it was a densely packed timbale of white meat flesh, bound together with only the faintest amount of mayonnaise, allowing the (salty) crab to be the main element in the mouth.
Mains
Me: Roast pigeon with a celeriac remoulade and beetroot, and carrots with honey and thyme on the side.
The Boy: Fillet of turbot with brown shrimp sauce, and celeriac mash on the side.
Verdict: Un…adventurous.
My pigeon was well-done. Strike number one. The celeriac remoulade was swimming in mayonnaise and cream, meaning that any woody, aniseed taste from the celeriac was masked by the odious, creamy white devils. Strike number two. The ‘jus’ (oh how we love a good ‘jus’ nowadays) was but a shadow. It was as if someone had been served their mains on this plate, eaten everything, wiped up all the ‘jus’ they could, and then I had been allowed to use their plate after. The real bugbear was that the ‘jus’ actually had a rather pleasant taste – the perfect tangy yet sweet taste that game benefits so much from. It could have rescued the dish. But, three strikes and you’re out.
The Boy’s turbot looked…like a white fish fillet on a bed of spinach, with a butter and brown shrimp sauce. Revolutionary. And the celeriac mash was, celeriac-less. It was mash. White fish, spinach and mash. Hmm.
Desserts
Me: plum compote and kirsch sorbet.
The Boy: cheese board.
Verdict: Unsurprising.
Yes there were plums (in a cloyingly sweet sugar syrup), and then there was a red sorbet, but as for kirsch, I’m stumped.
The cheese board was ‘traditional’, if we’re being polite. Brie. Stilton. Cheddar. Three oatcakes. A twig of red grapes, and, given the size of the cheese slices, a vat of tomato chutney, pureed so that it resembled tomato puree in texture. The Boy, who can attack blue cheeses with a resolve akin to Ajax the Trojan Horse, commented that it was a ‘safe’ choice. He’s politer than I.
What struck me about the meal was that there were lots of grand promises reading the menu, and on the plate, compositions that were elegant and pleasing to the eye, like the ballet. But, unlike the ballet, it failed to deliver anything of great note. Is it even possible to contend with the level of sensory stimulation that Swan Lake at The Royal Opera House provides? For all that food and eating constitutes the main pleasures in my life (it’s alright, The Boy has accepted that and knows I love him too, just in a different way), the ballet fed me, or rather my senses, with a feast of pointed toes, taut limbs and faultless twirls that completely over-shadowed our actual repast.
Go there not for the food, but for the arresting setting and atmosphere. The atrium is like something out of a Monet painting of Gare du Nord (an impression perhaps heightened by the fact that the majority of the waiting staff were French). Pretend to be elegant and graceful, like the menu. Pretend to be of importance and gravitas, like the menu. And tuck into the occasion: a meal for the senses. Buon appétit.
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