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| Marlene watching over me |
Once
upon a time – and it feels a mightily long time ago – I did an awful lot of
theatre reviewing.
I
didn’t get paid for it, but I got tickets, which were a form of gold dust
anyway. And I got to pen reviews that were published in the UK’s smallest national
daily newspaper, The Morning Star, where I eked out a meagre daytime
living as, first, an advertising salesperson and later, as a sub-editor, sports
editor and duty chief sub-editor.
It
paid lousily, but it was a proper, old-fashioned way of learning a trade – and
there were always those theatre tickets.
On
a couple of occasions, I was taken out to dinner after a show by the
exceptionally charming and generous Clive Hirschhorn, the long-time film and
theatre critic of the Sunday Express, to whom I’d been introduced by
the Star’s then film critic, Jeff Sawtell.
Clive
(and partner) took pity on a hackette with renownedly piss-poor pay and no
expenses, and carted me (and Jeff) off after a show I cannot recall to eat at
Joe Allen’s, just off The Strand.
Since
this was in the days before I started to really enjoy culinary matters, I
remember nothing about the food. But I do remember sitting at one of the
circular tables in the centre of the basement restaurant, with Alan Rickman
right behind me, almost back to back, and having the devil’s own job not to
melt into a pile of goo just hearing that voice.
And
at some point, Su Pollard announced her arrival with a Hi-di-Hi-like holler as she
entered.
It
was love at first celebrity sighting.
I
went back with a friend on a few occasions, sitting in a corner and nursing a
salad starter and a glass of wine because that was what I could afford, but
relishing the atmosphere. I remember huge amounts of walnuts and cheese in vast bowls of leaves; the late-evening piano and face-spotting as actors came in after their own evening's work, and the red
brick walls covered in Broadway posters.
And
thus Joe Allen’s – a legendary place on a far wider scale; open since 1977 and under new ownership this year – became a legend for me.
But
that was a long time ago and, despite my best intentions, I had never revisited
and The Other Half, for all my waxing lyrical over it on more than one
occasion, had never been at all.
On
Friday, however, we were booked into the Vaudeville to see The Ladykillers. And since we needed to
eat, I was contemplating dinner in the vicinity.
After
musing over the possibility of going to Orso, a rather nice Italian restaurant
in another basement nearby, it struck me that this was the perfect chance to
try Joe’s again.
There’s
always a danger, when you nurse fond memories of something, that revisiting
will ultimately spell disappointment. And even more so when you’ve burbled on
about it for years to someone else and they’re now going to experience it first
hand.
And
anyway, what would the food be like?
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| Crab cakes and apple slaw |
I
started with a cocktail – a mint julep, since we were, after all, in what is an
American diner meets a brasserie, and since I had, only a day earlier, been
listening to the late, great Robert Preston singing that it was the eponymous
Mame who gave his own “old mint julep a kick”.
I
am not usually a whisky person, but this mix of bourbon, mint, sugar and water
was very pleasant and refreshing.
From
the South, it was a step up to New England for crab cakes and an apple slaw,
with fries and a portion of buttered spinach on the side.
Oh
my, oh my. The crab cakes were pure crab, flecked with red chilli that cut
delightfully through the rich sweetness of the meat.
The
slaw, which was on a bed of endive, was bitter and fresh and light – and far
more than the garnish I’d rather expected (hence the order of spinach). There
was also a little light rose marie sauce on the side, while the fries and
spinach were equally top notch.
What
do you follow that with?
Well,
it was back down south for a slice of pecan and cranberry pie, with a quenelle
of whipped cream – cue Family Guy jokes about Stewie’s pronunciation
of ‘whipped’ – with a little cinnamon powder on top.
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| Pecan and cranberry pie with whipped cream |
Seriously
rich and naturally sweet, like the fruitiest fruit cake ever, with cream that
was light as a feather, it was a superb end to a superb meal.
The
Other Half opted for a steak, followed by a chocolate brownie and ice cream.
Mind,
we stayed on this side of The Pond with wine – a glass of red for him and white
for me – both from the Languedoc.
Joe’s
is not a traditional diner with gingham tablecloths and red banquettes, but a
very classy venue with a very classy take on some classic American cooking.
Oh,
and the decor is wonderful for any theatre buff – we were watched over by
Marlene’s lidded gaze.
There
may not have been any face spotting to be done in our part of the room and at
that time of evening, but the atmosphere is comfortable, the food excellent and
the service good.
Briefly,
then, to The Ladykillers.
The
Ealing comedy has been rewritten for the stage by Graham Linehan of Father
Ted and
Black Books fame, and has received raves.
It
is a light evening’s entertainment, but it isn’t the film.
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| The Ladykillers |
The
cast were great – particular mentions for Angela Thorne, Simon Day, Ralf Little
and Chris McCalphy as Mrs Wilberforce, Major Courtney, Harry Robinson and
One-Round.
It’s
not that John Gordon Sinclair was bad as Professor Marcus, but he never really
hits the creepy notes that are essential.
It
has a brief moment of very welcome and sinister darkness in the second act, but
certainly in the first, could out-ham David Walliams’s death scene in the Grandage Company Dream.
The
robbery and chase, though, is very inventive and the set in general is
excellent.
So,
that was that. It made me order a copy of the original film, feeling that I
need to remind myself what a glory of British cinema it is.
But
if the theatre didn’t live up to hopes – Joe Allen’s most certainly did. We
will be back.
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