First Date with Emma

 

Emma is my good friend who has very kindly agreed to help me with the Bellini Project, as I am now calling it- my endeavor in finding a well-priced, delicious Bellini in London. This all started because of a £14.00 Bellini, which I thought was ridiculously over-priced. I was outraged, and perhaps a little naïve, to find that one of my favorite cocktails should cost so much, and so I guess I am trying to find out why. I realize that there are other significant causes around the world and in this city, where I might better direct my energies…. and maybe one day I will fight against the urgent crisis of poverty and hunger and ignorance, but right now, I am consumed by the injustice of an overpriced cocktail, and will fight my battles in the bars and dining rooms of London’s swankiest (and some not so swanky) restaurants. All for the good of my beloved Bellini.

Emma, who is tall, elegant, and by all appearances English, imports fruit for a living, and besides being a very good friend, she is also the perfect Bellini companion. She knows her white peaches from her nectarines, her plums from her pluots, and her blood oranges from her navels. She is also half-Italian- her father hails from Liguria. Beneath her smooth English veneer, her eloquent speech, and confident reserve, is a raging Italian beauty, a fantastic chef who uses no recipes, a woman who can dress for every day as though she never gave it a minute’s thought, with the utmost style and grace. Emma has a passion for food, family, wine and music, and these qualities make her an ideal companion for my survey, as we explore Bellini territory in London.

Our first restaurant was chosen for the obvious reason that it was Italian, and the fact that it was on our way home from a PTO school meeting (convenience may often outweigh other factors in this survey, making it perhaps a little un-survey like). It was on Marylebone Lane, and I’d been there several times before, knew the owners, and found it reliable in terms of food. We ordered some antipasti, and two Bellinis. Priced at £6.50 on the menu, we were not sure what to expect. We sat in the busy, dimly lit, downstairs café section, which was less formal than the upstairs section where the tables were all covered in white. It was crowded for a Wednesday night, the tables were full, and the joint was swinging, so to speak.

Emma and I spoke about our daughters, the school meeting we’d just attended, and then the Bellinis were served. Their color, as far as I could tell without good lighting, was a little too pale, and more yellow than pink. At the first sip, my initial sensation was one of fructose corn syrup- or whatever sweetener they used in the peach flavoring. I also thought the prosecco was a little too ‘California spumante’, though Emma thought it was okay. There was something a little disappointing and lonely about the drink, like a girl from an old James Cagney film who has been forgotten, and tossed to the side for the sake of a gun fight. A weird analogy I know, but anyway at £6.50, Emma and I agreed, this Bellini was okay, more or less what we expected.

At the end of the evening, Emma argued that we needed to measure our Bellinis against an ideal. She suggested that we return to the first restaurant, the overpriced show-room which first ignited my indignation and passion for my simple Italian drink, salve to all girls in need, and women with heartache or headache. We needed to start with the transgressor of all Bellinis good, and then go from there, because we needed to measure them against the best. Expensive yes, but best so far.