Some months ago I interviewed a couple of book editors for an industry rag. They were both editors of illustrated books – they worked with authors and art departments and photo agencies, they worked with photographers and stylists, sometimes, as editors of cookbooks, too, they worked, starry-eyed or no, with chefs.
“I’m working on a cookbook by Ottolenghi,” one of them mentioned when we spoke on the phone. She was a sweet-sounding woman who was generous with her time and loved, it was clear, her work. Her name was Sarah Lavelle, which surely is the name of someone who must deal with icing and biscuts on a daily basis.
“Ottolenghi!” I said, and I was enthusiastic, because Yotam Ottolenghi runs one of the best little restaurants in London. His rack of lamb melts in the mouth. His roasted aubergines and pomegranate seeds are sweet and tart and soft and crunchy all at the same time. His Jerusalem artichoke purée is to be cherished by the spoonful. I could go on. I will. His French beans and mixed mushrooms are a fine mélange of crisp and slippery, the high notes of green tempered with the earthiness of warmed and gently wilted mushrooms.
With French beans and mixed mushrooms in mind a couple of weeks ago, I was trying to make a reservation at Ottolenghi when a curious coincidence knocked at the door. I’d already made a reservation for three and now wanted to up it to four, so I called, and listened to the girl on the telephone page through her reservations book. “There is no reservation for Stellou,” she said, confused. The pages flipped back and forth noisily. “Are you sure you even have a reservation for three?” “Yes,” I said, and though I also wanted to say, “And it was you who wrote it down, yesterday,” I did not. “I only have,” she said, “Sarah Lavelle down, a party of four, at 7:30... but no Stellou at 7.” She made thinking noises down the line while something slowly clicked in my mind. She eventually found my reservation, made a note that we would be four, and said they would look forward to seeing us.
“Olive,” I said later, and maybe I already had a tone in my voice that made him nervous of what was to come. “This girl I spoke to that time,” I said, “this editor, this Sarah Lavelle. She is going to be at the restaurant when we’re there! What are the chances! I should go up and introduce myself! I mean, we’ve never met, we’ve only talked on the phone, and now I could look out for a party of four at 7:30, and I could go up to her and say, ‘Are you Sarah Lavelle’? And then I could tell her the story! This is a great story! I mean, what are the chances?” He was still looking at me, Olive was, because he is a patient man. “Or,” I said, “I guess it could be weird, like I was stalking her or something.” Here he said: “Yes.” “Yes what?” I said, and it is likely I was wild-eyed with possibility. “Yes,” he said, “it would seem like you were stalking her.” “Oh,” I said. “Well,” I said, “fine.” I was already, inside, wondering what she would look like. I was wondering what I would wear.
That Saturday night of the reservation came around, and we were me and Olive and Laureen and Hens at the long white table at Ottolenghi, with the candlesticks burning bright. The bread board was piled high as if we were farmers celebrating the harvest.
“You have to go up to her when she comes in,” Laureen said, when I told her the story. “It is,” she said, “a great story.” Laureen and I have been friends for a long time.
It was nearing 7:30 and we were all four of us keeping an eye on the door.
“But what if I go up to her–” I began to say, and Olive took my hand – for support, I thought, and I thought he was a sweet and kind man – and he said, “You will not.”
Sarah Lavelle was in a party of four at 7:30, and she was seated not twelve feet away from us. We shushed one another, me and Hens and Laureen, we looked at her out of the corner of our eyes like spy school drop-outs, we giggled and snorted and hushed one another again. Olive, I think, just shook his head. He probably wished he was sitting with Sarah Lavelle.
“I really think you should go up to her and say something,” Laureen said, egging me on. “It would be a great conversation starter.”
“I can’t now,” I said, and I offered my arms, palms out, for inspection. “My half-glass of prosecco has turned me all red, and if I go up to her now, she’ll think I’m some random drunk person. I will lurch all over her, going, ‘Rrarr you Srrarah Lavrelle?’” – here, Sarah Lavelle’s husband looked up, startled – “and it will not be the best first impression.”
Giddy we were, one silliness piling up on another, and we were, during the crab cakes and the red cabbage, through the duck and the seared sirloin and the taleggio polenta, unstoppable.
We were paying the cheque, finally, and casting a final eye around before we left. “These are nice napkins,” Laureen said thoughtfully, and we fondled the thick white linen, admired the red line running down one side. “Put ’em in your bag,” I said. “Can you imagine?” I said, “if I were to steal these napkins, and they caught me at the door?” “In front of Sarah Lavelle!” I said. “The shame!” “They’d say, ‘Excuse me, madam,’” I said, “and they’d ask me my name, and I’d say”
– and by now we were doubled over, we had tears in our eyes –
“Sarah Lavelle.”
“I’m working on a cookbook by Ottolenghi,” one of them mentioned when we spoke on the phone. She was a sweet-sounding woman who was generous with her time and loved, it was clear, her work. Her name was Sarah Lavelle, which surely is the name of someone who must deal with icing and biscuts on a daily basis.
“Ottolenghi!” I said, and I was enthusiastic, because Yotam Ottolenghi runs one of the best little restaurants in London. His rack of lamb melts in the mouth. His roasted aubergines and pomegranate seeds are sweet and tart and soft and crunchy all at the same time. His Jerusalem artichoke purée is to be cherished by the spoonful. I could go on. I will. His French beans and mixed mushrooms are a fine mélange of crisp and slippery, the high notes of green tempered with the earthiness of warmed and gently wilted mushrooms.
With French beans and mixed mushrooms in mind a couple of weeks ago, I was trying to make a reservation at Ottolenghi when a curious coincidence knocked at the door. I’d already made a reservation for three and now wanted to up it to four, so I called, and listened to the girl on the telephone page through her reservations book. “There is no reservation for Stellou,” she said, confused. The pages flipped back and forth noisily. “Are you sure you even have a reservation for three?” “Yes,” I said, and though I also wanted to say, “And it was you who wrote it down, yesterday,” I did not. “I only have,” she said, “Sarah Lavelle down, a party of four, at 7:30... but no Stellou at 7.” She made thinking noises down the line while something slowly clicked in my mind. She eventually found my reservation, made a note that we would be four, and said they would look forward to seeing us.
“Olive,” I said later, and maybe I already had a tone in my voice that made him nervous of what was to come. “This girl I spoke to that time,” I said, “this editor, this Sarah Lavelle. She is going to be at the restaurant when we’re there! What are the chances! I should go up and introduce myself! I mean, we’ve never met, we’ve only talked on the phone, and now I could look out for a party of four at 7:30, and I could go up to her and say, ‘Are you Sarah Lavelle’? And then I could tell her the story! This is a great story! I mean, what are the chances?” He was still looking at me, Olive was, because he is a patient man. “Or,” I said, “I guess it could be weird, like I was stalking her or something.” Here he said: “Yes.” “Yes what?” I said, and it is likely I was wild-eyed with possibility. “Yes,” he said, “it would seem like you were stalking her.” “Oh,” I said. “Well,” I said, “fine.” I was already, inside, wondering what she would look like. I was wondering what I would wear.
That Saturday night of the reservation came around, and we were me and Olive and Laureen and Hens at the long white table at Ottolenghi, with the candlesticks burning bright. The bread board was piled high as if we were farmers celebrating the harvest.
“You have to go up to her when she comes in,” Laureen said, when I told her the story. “It is,” she said, “a great story.” Laureen and I have been friends for a long time.
It was nearing 7:30 and we were all four of us keeping an eye on the door.
“But what if I go up to her–” I began to say, and Olive took my hand – for support, I thought, and I thought he was a sweet and kind man – and he said, “You will not.”
Sarah Lavelle was in a party of four at 7:30, and she was seated not twelve feet away from us. We shushed one another, me and Hens and Laureen, we looked at her out of the corner of our eyes like spy school drop-outs, we giggled and snorted and hushed one another again. Olive, I think, just shook his head. He probably wished he was sitting with Sarah Lavelle.
“I really think you should go up to her and say something,” Laureen said, egging me on. “It would be a great conversation starter.”
“I can’t now,” I said, and I offered my arms, palms out, for inspection. “My half-glass of prosecco has turned me all red, and if I go up to her now, she’ll think I’m some random drunk person. I will lurch all over her, going, ‘Rrarr you Srrarah Lavrelle?’” – here, Sarah Lavelle’s husband looked up, startled – “and it will not be the best first impression.”
Giddy we were, one silliness piling up on another, and we were, during the crab cakes and the red cabbage, through the duck and the seared sirloin and the taleggio polenta, unstoppable.
We were paying the cheque, finally, and casting a final eye around before we left. “These are nice napkins,” Laureen said thoughtfully, and we fondled the thick white linen, admired the red line running down one side. “Put ’em in your bag,” I said. “Can you imagine?” I said, “if I were to steal these napkins, and they caught me at the door?” “In front of Sarah Lavelle!” I said. “The shame!” “They’d say, ‘Excuse me, madam,’” I said, “and they’d ask me my name, and I’d say”
– and by now we were doubled over, we had tears in our eyes –
“Sarah Lavelle.”
posted by stellou at 4:29 PM
1 Comments:
Am beginning an epic journey of Stellou blog catch up here - so excuse the late comment. I am not sure about Ottolenghi being one of the best little restaurants in London, BUT what I do know is that his passionfruit meringue tart induced my colleague into a When Harry Met Sally state, and all her neighbours on the table subsequently ordered it too. I of course had to try it and yes, it is pretty damn good.
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