Red buses, red telephone boxes and black taxis

RED double decker buses, red telephone boxes on streets and countless boxy, black taxis lined up at Heathrow Airport. It must be London.
The wonders of air travel dawn on me as I take a bright blue taxi and pull up outside Chesterfield House,in Chesterfield Gardens, Mayfair where my Adelaide friend, lawyer Diane Myers is expecting me this morning. I am to sleep off jetlag and then we are to lunch like ladies at British celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant in Claridges Hotel in Brook Street, Mayfair.
The renowned hotel is like one big flower bower with groupings of pink gladioli in tall vases together with bowls of pink hydrangias and peonies on each surface – hall tables, a grand piano, mantelpieces and pedestals. Their stunning effect is magnified by the mirrored walling alongside the gracious curved staircase.
The hotels vestibule is packed with guests enjoying late morning tea beneath an awesome central chandelier. A lone harpist plays as we weave through the throng into Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant. It is defined by a book stand of all his cook books.
Three courses here of limited choice costs 30 pounds and wine is extra. Diane and I have bonded through years of friendship as single women and remarried a few years ago within months of each other, and we celebrate all of this with champagne.
My choice of entrée is surprising. One large ravioli of rabbit and crayfish, sitting in a bisque with peas and baby broad beans.
Our accent attracts attention and pretty soon the restaurant manager enquires if we are pleased. We comment on the gracious waiters and ask if Gordon is in the kitchen. “Oh no, he has three restaurants in London, but he comes in once a week to taste and inspect preparation of dishes,’’ says Andy Downton.
“We would love to see the kitchen,’’ I cheekily suggest.
“By all means when you have finished your meal,’’ he says.
My main course is Label Anglaise Chicken with summer truffle consommé – with the truffle inserted under the chicken’s skin. I peel off the skin, (my dietitian has forbidden chicken skin) so I scrape every piece of the black gold into the consommé.
After a sweet dessert of ice cream and chocolate mousse, we follow the general manager into the kitchen where a heap of chefs and assistants scuttle about like disturbed rabbits around a host of pots and plates. Three black waiters are standing alongside us awaiting their orders.
They are very young men, not surprising considering Andy, the GM is only 30. We don’t meet Steve, the executive chef, but do note that the executive sous chef is black and works as if he is on skates.
“We serve about 130 meals each seating on Fridays and Saturdays for lunch and dinner,’’ says Andy.

Despite the busyness around us, we talk about how British food culutre has evolved to become sophisticated led by personality chefs such as Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein.
Everything about Claridges is a divine experience of beauty and opulence.
The ladies’ toilets are pure prettinesss with art deco rose garlands hand-painted around the ornate freezes; where a black uniformed maid switches on the taps as soon as we re-opened the toilet door.
On our way out, the harpist, who must have heard our chattering when we entered the establishment asks us if we are sisters and tells us he is from Queensland. He asks if he could have a photograph taken with us and says London has been his home for many years but he still feels Australian.
“I miss Australia,’’ he says, the epitome of professionalism strumming away, his back to the grand piano. He thrusts us his card and we learn his name is Kevin Lee, professional harpist and pianist.
And believe it or not as we swing through the entrance doors, the rotund doorman also picks up our accent and in the same broad Aussie twang asks where we come from. “Adelaide’’ we say in unison. “What suburb?’ he enquires again. “Belair,’’ I say. “Really! My mum lives in Elliott Avenue.””
I look at him, astonished, and say “I live off Gloucester – the next street across.’’
“Wow!’ says the doorman with his tall black hat and tails. We learn his name is Brenton. “Do you know Pammie Wall? she was here last week. She lives in Springfield,’’ he continues.
“Yes, I know Pammie, well, She is holding a luncheon in October when I will be speaker,’’ I reply.
“Then do you know her good friend, my grandma, Eve-Lynne Otto?’’
I can hardly believe this conversation is unfolding outside Claridges in London.
Eve-Lynn is the auntie-in-law of my sister, Anne and I know her well through charity work in Adelaide. “My sister is married to her nephew Ken Otto; he is a cousin of your mother,’’ I exclaim.
“I know Eve-Lynne really well and bought one of her paintings a few months ago,’’ I comment.
But then, a fellow cleaning the revolving doors scolds him for talking and he rushes to open a taxi. “See you later,’’ he calls.
That’s Adelaide society for you, even on the streets of London. Much closer even than six degrees of separation.

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