This puts me in mind of the old Tatler reviews, back when it was…interesting. Or even readable.

They’d pick a premise for their reviews, then hunt down the very best restaurants related to that premise, no matter how whacky, and I loved them for it. I may never go to La Tante Claire, but thanks to one of their columns I know that’s where to take someone so incredibly rich and decrepit that they can not only pay a typical worker’s month’s wages for the bill, but also cannot actually chew. I believe that roundup was called “Where to Take the Wrinklies” and the premise was that you shouldn’t make them do any unneccessary mastication, both out of courtesy to said denture-wearing wrinkly and also so they’d remember you fondly in their will.

There was also “Best restaurant ashtrays for stealing” and “best loos“. Always wanted to do a loo roundup, myself; I’m quite the Balzac of the bathroom, if you check through my old blog. Or is that the Proust of the potty? Whatever…

In any case, the Observer has sent a couple of reporters out into the wilds of London to find the best places to take that special someone who shouldn’t technically be special to you at all, you naughty thing, you.

After having read the whole piece a couple of times, I can only say that it appears either standards of what constitutes an actual “affair” are much, much lower in London or the restaurants are much, MUCH livelier.

Behold the title:

Has the restaurant become the new hotel bedroom?

[His side:]

From my observation, there follow nine practical commandments for naughty-noshery (no seventh commandment – work it out).

1. Beware of sod’s law. If you choose a restaurant within a three-mile radius of your place of work, it’s water-cooler gossip before the day’s out. My favourite restaurant in my home-from-home town, Los Angeles, is Citrus, on Melrose. It’s harder to find than a brothel in the Vatican City. [although it seems to me that going all the way to LA is a bit too much effort, although it is likely to get you laid; have you met any Angelinos? You needn’t even bring a partner, just pick one up on the way from the airport].

2. Following on the above prudential strategy, make up a list of restaurants with high-wall leather booths. They make for an atmosphere of intimate, padded privacy in which conversational liberties can be safely taken. Or even an under-the-table fumble. [see what I mean about lower standards? I guess we just go crazy up here in Canuckistan; terribly reserved, these Brits]

3. Affairs tend to progress through the discovery of a favourite new restaurant (recall Greene’s The End of the Affair). Tip generously from the first. You want to be fondly remembered and always given your table. Leave cash on the table (not on the card receipt) so she knows what an open-handed fellow you are (there’s no Dutch in your soul – Frog through and through). [oui; and the waiters will know immediately that you two shouldn’t be having dinner together. Anything over the standard tip, particularly an even multiple, means soembody’s got a tan line on their ring finger]

4. If you’re a budget-price (let’s be honest, ‘cheap’) cove, avoid Italian restaurants. They love clatter. And a splodge of bolognese on the shirt is a real passion killer. Indian restaurants are quiet (all that sound-absorbing flock wallpaper) but those dreary raga-loops (Punjabi girls wailing glumly about their lovers) are a downer. Indian waiters are also rather censorious and prone to the chilling side glance. Chinese restaurants serve too fast and are obviously interested only in the foreign devils’ money. Thai restaurants tend to have such exquisite waiters that you feel Shrek-like. Not good. American themed beef joints have heavy-pumping Muzak. Go French if you can afford it. [got to disagree; very difficult to do anything lively after seven courses, all of which have butter and cream in them. Not to mention that a spot on your clothing is just an incredible opportunity to double-entendre your way to nudity. Try some weird raw foodie place; there is always that reputation that wheatgrass has, and you can suggest trying it out. Seafood also good, for the same reason. Duh.]

5. Following on the above, remember it’s the conversation that gets the relationship fizzing. So even if it’s French, you don’t want one of those nouvelle cuisine places with course after course that demands a running commentary on the grub. You’re a philanderer, remember, not a food critic. [it’s “conversation” is it? What makes me think this man is a better talker than a lover?]

6. The best (budget-priced) conversation restaurants in London are those on top of Waterstone‘s in Piccadilly and the NPG in Trafalgar Square. Sumptuous views, incredibly dilatory service, dirt cheap, and surrounded by thousands of objects that raise the cultural tone well above what you have on your mind. [Well actually, proximity to getaway isn’t a bad quality, and these put unneccesary roadblocks in your way; this is why a picnic is best, because it’s already included the getaway part]

7. See the book of Deuteronomy.

8. Make a list of restaurants with good conversation pieces around the table. L’Etoile in Charlotte Street, London, for example (cinq coqs), has faded photographs of French celebrities covering its walls. Do a reconnaissance meal first, and bone up on who’s who (‘My God, Moreau was beautiful, wasn’t she?’). [oh dear. This is known among women as the “breadstick conversation.” As in, “uh, gee, we both like breadsticks. Amazing, isn’t it?” and so we return to that whole “conversation” point above. This man must be either very rich or very, very good-looking]

9. Avoid lettuce and spinach (green-tooth curse), garlic, and coarse vin rouge (black-tooth curse). [Fanny Brice said “alcohol is essential: a little for you, a lot for your entourage”]

10. Have a discreet snack before the meal to dampen the ravening appetite. You want it to be evident that you’re more interested in her than the food. In Las Vegas, the police recommend that (male) punters masturbate before going out on the town. Think about it – you want to appear cool and collected, not hot and sweaty. Just a suggestion. [I think that was Chris Elliot in There’s Something About Mary; but it’s perfectly understandable that a rich, handsome English conversationalist would confuse him with the Las Vegas Police Force]

For her (more anecdotal) take, go to the site.