Or more briefly a subsidised expedition to Rowley's of Jerymn Street (see reference 1) to try their famous version of the steak. We got to know about such steaks from Caspar's of Epsom High Street, sadly no more, an interesting establishment combining B&B, wine bar for thirty something lagers, notable for its session on Sunday afternoon, and restaurant, this last boasting a far better chef than the location and general appearance of the establishment would suggest. Also notable for allowing one to smoke a cigar after one's meal. Inter alia, they did a very good chateaubriand. We have also taken one, made from an exotic brand of cow called a dexter, from a hotel at Camber Sands (see reference 2). There one had to smoke on the terrace, rather windy the last time we were there, one May I think.
We got to Rowley's via Victoria Station, more by luck than judgement as we had just missed our more usual Waterloo train, walking through Green Park to get to Piccadilly, where we came across the Canadian Memorial, which we learned was cleaned about once a month but was on this occasion having its annual spring clean, including replacing the grills which let the water out with something less likely to trap the shoes of small children. Even with work in progress it looked rather impressive at close quarters, if rather miniature compared with the HQ at Ottawa, the place which was the scene of an outrage during our time in Canada.
From there to Albemarle Street, somewhere near where we found a couple of outfitters with nice lines in gentlemens' dressing gowns, something which I was happy to spend quality money on at one time, but now tending to settle for M&S. But perhaps I will try and find them again, in amongst all the other fancy shops in the area, when the current gown needs to be retired.
Rowley's turned out to be busy, more posh café than plush restaurant (which I had rather been expecting). We turned up at just the right moment and we got a small table for four rather than a small table for two, which was nice. Service good. Lobster soup, called bisque, was OK but could have done with a bit less milk and a bit more lobster. White bread, sourced, I should imagine, from a freezer in one way or another was also OK. Good selection of wine and we started, for a change nowadays, with a 2007 Rioja Vina Amezola Crianza. But the main business was the chateaubriand which was very good, if rather different from the version from Caspar's, which, inter alia, came with a brown pouring sauce rather than a yellow buttery sauce. This one also came in its own little handleless frying pan, along with half a grilled tomato, which sat on top of a little burner to keep it warm. The meat was grilled so that it was almost charred on the outside while being dark pink and juicy on the inside, something that I have never been able to manage at home, on fillet steak or on any other kind of meat. Given up trying now. Plenty of fresh McDonald's style chips with the result that we needed to top up the wine with a little 2013 Pulenta La Flor Malbec from the Mendoza Province of Argentina. Not quite as good as the Rioja but it did have the merit in coming in smaller quantities than the bottle. A bit full after this lot, so we both passed on pudding, although BH did manage an expresso.
Out into the late afternoon darkness to stroll back to the souvenir shops on Buckingham Palace Road to admire their fine, festive window displays. Also to admire the stone prawn's tail which decorates the apex of the rather pompous, but rather handsome, doric styled entrance to the Queen's Gallery.
On the way we took in the big Waterstones in what used to be the big Simpsons, interesting on this occasion as the DT had just run a piece about their boss, one James Daunt, a banker turned bookseller, now working at least part time for the oligarch who owns Waterstones. The article mentioned that one could not get by selling just books these days, and all the shops had extras, the nature of which varied from shop to shop. This one included rather natty plastic rain coats, packed down to the size of a packet of paper hankies ('Handy Andies'). I bought one, but had some trouble stopping BH from getting the thing out to inspect it; she would never have packed it down into its bag again. I should have bought several as they were only £1.99 and I imagine best regarded as a one-time thing. But we were able to buy a copy of 'A Room with a View', having been reminded of the book's existence by coming across, quite by chance, a quite decent adaptation on a DVD in some charity shop or other. More of that in due course.
We also noticed that Fox's cigar shop appeared to be open again, if in a bit of St. James's improbably described as the A4 by google maps: I had thought that the place had closed down, in the wake of the crusade against puffers. But the large Indian outside had morphed into two rather smaller Indians inside, in the shop window. On the other hand, Berry Bros. just down the road, was alive and well. The place which was once able to sell me two bottles of wine from the same village in France, one rather posher than the other, to see if we could tell the difference. A game which they were well up for once they got the idea and decided that I was not pulling their chain.
PS: illustration of some sleepers on the way to Victoria. Dreadful condition. Someone ought to tell Network Rail about them.
Reference 1: http://www.rowleys.co.uk/.
Reference 2: http://thegallivant.co.uk/.
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