Women of a certain age like to celebrate their birthdays not only once a year, but throughout the birthday week, with family, and more often with a lunch or dinner with girl-friends. They deserve to be feted more than once a year. Two to three times during the birthday week is rightly justified for the working girl, the overstretched mum, and the beleaguered wife.
It was thus, how I found myself recently celebrating a friend’s forty-something birthday, in an upscale Marylebone eatery, which to my dismay featured a little too much daylight. At our age, natural light can be hideously cruel, and so I avoided the mirrors at the back, and made a mental note to book only the dimmest of restaurants for my next birthday.
We gathered in the cocktail lounge, where we exchanged the obligatory kisses, cards and gifts- a girl can’t have too many twenty-pound, fig-scented candles, can she? I did wonder if I was missing something. I’d never received a candle as a gift before I turned forty, and now I have masses of them, accrued from the last 4 birthdays. Part of me also wondered if it was an English thing, women and candles. They feature so much in classic English literature and period films, but usually in some sort of ornate holder and for practical reasons. They needed light. Perhaps a few of them were even scented, with lemon balm, hyssop or comfrey.
At the present gathering, I asked the women if they ever used their candles, and they all answered affirmatively, gently sighing into relaxed murmurs of yes, mm, oh yes, every evening, first thing in the morning, in the bath. In the bath? When did they have time to ‘bathe’?! What was I doing wrong? One of them put it very nicely when she said, ‘lighting a candle when I come home just puts everything right.’ I loved that description, and have since dug out and dusted off the candles that I normally lit only once or twice a year, around the holidays it seemed, and let their perfume infuse my hallway and kitchen, since those are the places where I seem to spend most of my time. So far, I’d like to think that everything has been ‘put right,’ and even if it hasn’t, I like the illusion.
I digress. We gathered in the cocktail room, and when the waiter came to take our orders for drinks, there was some hesitation. We all looked towards the birthday girl, all seven of us, and she looked back out at us, eyebrows raised, as though in question. I was feeling rather reckless, and took initiative by speaking first in what I thought was an inspired gesture, ‘A Bellini!’ I blurted out, ‘I think I’ll have a Bellini!.’ One by one, the women fell behind me, and Bellinis were ordered all around, their resolve toppling over into one big heap of peach puree and champagne fizzle.
The waiter brought us our drinks which were just right as Bellinis go. I’ll admit, I don’t have a huge amount of experience when it comes to cocktails and other pre-dinner drinks, but I have had my share of Bellinis at the eponymous Harry’s Bar in Venice
Our Bellinis had just enough of late summer peaches, and the bubbles were delicate and fresh. They were nicely cold, and looked very pretty, peachy and pink, and appropriately celebratory in our hands. We sipped them with ease, feeling ever so slightly decadent, as though we were indeed sitting in an open-air restaurant on the Zattare in Venice, rather than in an upstairs darkly upholstered bar, in rainy London. If we closed our eyes, we might even be able to see the sun setting on Rendentore Church
All in all, I believed the Bellinis were a success. Our maître’d, who seemed far too friendly, and accessible and busy to be our maître’d, showed us to our table, and there we sat and spoke of our children, not of our work, and our new aches and pains. Among us were hip, knee and an upper back (my very own) ailments. We discussed remedies, osteopaths, and exercise routines, and sadly, our wine flutes were soon emptied, and the Bellinis were all but a soft glow in our memories. Like an orange sun in summer which sets fire to all it touches as it goes down, and then suddenly disappears all too quickly, our glasses were empty, with bits of peach puree left abandoned on the sides.
Lunch was ordered. There was a pre-fixe menu which was welcomed; our birthday girl was aware that lunch out these days is a treat, but one to be taken with recession-era frugality. Still feeling a bit careless, and desperately wanting that pink glow of late summer to be present, I ordered the least expensive glass of white wine to have with my meal. Only one other woman ordered a glass of wine. In retrospect, I think she perhaps felt a bit sorry for me, that my Bellini moment had ended. ‘Had they heard?’ I asked suddenly remembering, and feeling inspired once again, ‘Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize! I had tears in my eyes,’ I told them rather too emotional now. ‘For what?’ One of them answered in sharp retort, ‘what has he done to deserve it?’ ‘Oh, but yes, of course, you’re right,’ I answered, stymied by the truth. He hadn’t done anything yet. But oh the joy of it, oh the hope! I was thinking, but answered instead, ‘Yes, no, he hasn’t done a thing to deserve it.’ There was a brief moment of silence before we fell back into the easy rapport of a lovely, mid-week birthday lunch, in a nice restaurant in London
They left in pairs and ones, leaving many pond notes to cover our bill, until only my good friend Lulu and I were left. I knew Lulu perhaps better than any of the other women, and in the safety of her company, I relaxed. We asked for the bill, and chatted easily, now that the group was gone. The waiter had looked to me on several occasions throughout the meal, letting me guide him with a slight nod of my head or a raised eyebrow, as to when to take plates away, and when to bring the next course. I don’t know why it was me- perhaps it had to do with the Bellini moment? At any rate, I was also the one to whom he now expertly handed the bill.
I expected it would be a few hundred, but when I saw that the seven Bellinis were almost one hundred pounds on their own, I felt hugely embarrassed, and slightly cheated. ‘Oh my god,’ I said to Lulu, who was counting the money, ‘the Bellinis…’ Lulu took the bill from my hands, and shared my surprise. ‘But it’s only a cocktail- peaches and prosecco, how could they be so expensive? About fourteen pounds each! We could have ordered two bottles of good champagne for that price!’ I prattled on, feeling ever so conned. Lulu assured me that all was not lost, she might be able to write some of it off as a business expense, and I needn’t worry too much, she said. I thought I ought to apologize to the others for my rashness at ordering them in the first place. ‘No,’ said Lulu with great conviction, ‘they were the perfect drink, and besides, we are all grownups, and we can cope, and they were a treat!”
I gratefully accepted her rational, though the injustice of it all still haunts me. Since then, I’ve learned that a bottle of prosecco at the same restaurant would have put us back thirty-seven pounds. We could have ordered two bottles, and still come under the hundred quid mark. I hope to do an investigatory report of the cost and exact components of the Bellinis in the better restaurants of central London
55 Marylebone High Street London
A bottle of Prosecco Spumante, Conegliano e Valdobbiadene, Ca’ Morlin , Veneto
Birthday Bellini approx. £14
Orrery
Tel: 020 7616 8000
