A Midweek Farewell
Apr. 30th, 2006 03:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhythmaningAnother day, another leaving do. This was for F., up in Edinburgh for the last time on business. She had invited a few more people – colleagues who were also staying in Edinburgh overnight.
She had booked space in IndigoYard, a bar cum restaurant in the West End, just behind Charlotte Square. As we drove into town, our chauffeur, R., told me that he too had got a new job and would be leaving in June if he can swing; I shall be following in July. The turnover in our team has been little short of phenomenal: in Edinburgh, there will be only one person left from a team of about twelve in October.
The three of us were there first; we parked R.’s car, F. running in just in case anyone had got there earlier. We went in and sat upstairs in a gallery overlooking the main bar; F. was off adjusting her slap and removing some clothes (I think) – she returned with a plunging décolletage, which proved charmingly distracting throughout the evening. (She said that I had to say how good I thought she looked; and she did.)
We ordered some drinks and some chips. The chips were good – some were fat and some were skinny, but they were all good. (Actually, the drinks must have been good too – well, we seemed to polish them off quickly enough.) We decided to keep the chips rolling out of the kitchen for most of the night.
More people showed up. They had been at the meeting F. had facilitated; I think it had been a hard meeting for a lot of people – team vision and values, that sort of thing; since my vision doesn’t include being part of the team, I declined the invitation. (Indeed, it seemed kind of odd to be asked; I would have felt a real impostor taking part.)
Once everyone had got settled, our waitress said that actually we were in the wrong place: they had thought we were another party – our tables were actually downstairs. It was gracefully negotiated between F. and the waitress – I think F. wrangled some wine off the bill, or maybe a guarantee of unlimited chips for as long as we wanted – and we moved downstairs; not so good for people watching – the balcony did give one a good view – but more intimate, perhaps.
More people showed up, others left; some seemed to come, go, and then come back again, too: it was a good crowd, pretty fluid. K. was there, and lots of old friends of F.’s; and a few new ones, too. It was good to be able to socialise together with the guys from London – we rarely get together when one party or another isn’t flying home. There were a several people who had been at the previous Friday’s do, too – I am certain that I had the identical conversations with people on each evening, a kind of alcoholic déja vu (though this was also partly because people kept reminding me of conversation I had had with them last week…)
Despite the volume of carbohydrates we had already consumed, the guys from London wanted dinner, and F. directed them to La Lanterna, an Italian place on Hanover St. There are three or four Italian restaurants next door to each other, and a couple across the road too. Whenever I walk past, the air is heavy with garlic fumes – I think they deliberately place sautéed garlic next to the kitchen extractor fans to draw in customers. I have been to La Lanterna a couple of times – it was recommended by a friend – and though it is good, I have never thought it was particularly special (since it had been built up, I had been disappointed); but it served its market.
We sat on two tables – five from London on one table (they had walked there together), F., K., A. and me on the other – we had had a lift. A little later, J. the dancer showed up as well – in time for sweet.
The waiters knew F. and K., and they could have ordered without reading the menu – the waiter told them what they wanted to order; since I clearly hadn’t eaten enough chips, I went for the gnocci. They were good, but the memory of the best gnocci I ever had (a small, crowded cantina in Venice) is deeply engrained, and though good, tasty and filling, I was a little bit disappointed. I have had some very good Italian meals – particularly in Italy – and I can’t help thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t order something that produces such strong memories, since I am bound to be disappointed; but then, not ordering food I like sounds a tad bizarre.
(The best pasta I have ever eaten was also in a small restaurant in Venice, in an unpopular part of the city, off the beaten track. This place was recommended by our guidebook, but it looked very inauspicious. It was run by two elderly women, and there were only six things on the menu. It all looked distinctly iffy; but it was delicious. When we returned to Venice on our honeymoon, we went back there, only to find we were a few days late: it was closed, and there was a note stuck on the door announcing the funeral of one of the elderly women.)
We ate; and drank (slipping from white to red wine; something I knew I would regret, but hey, red went with the tomato sauce on the gnocci); and some people ate a bit more – the dancer had some tiramisu (which I now never order in restaurant because I know I will be disappointed) – and she was disappointed. By way of pudding I settled for an espresso doppio, which saw me down the hill to bed.
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Date: 2006-04-30 02:12 pm (UTC)Ah, that has such a familiar ring to my ears!
As does the "Wine. More wine. Did I mention the wine?" ;)
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Date: 2006-04-30 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-30 02:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-30 02:28 pm (UTC)I miss Edinburgh. Hell, I miss Scotland!
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Date: 2006-04-30 02:34 pm (UTC)I wish I had the guts to ask them to bring out a portion so I could look at it before ordering...
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Date: 2006-04-30 05:45 pm (UTC)Sounds like another lovely evening. And just reading about all this food and drink is making me hungry :)
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Date: 2006-05-01 02:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-02 01:08 pm (UTC)