Decimo: a review, and a resurfacing
The way we live now
I step, blinking, out of Kings’ Cross underground station, hauling a small suitcase & generic black Longchamps bag behind me. I have a vague sense of being late, or, perhaps more generously, only just on time, but am disinclined to hurry on account of having baggage in tow, and also the misfortune to have worn an overly padded coat for what has turned into an unexpectedly warm evening. May had, to date, been so cold and wet, and I had stepped out of the house so little over the past 14 months, that I hadn’t thought to deviate much from my standard pandemic attire of leggings, vest top, and puffy coat that mildly resembles a human duvet.
The warmth and the time notwithstanding, I begin looking around for the restaurant. I recall the area being more inclined towards chicken shops than Michelin star restaurants, so am not entirely sure where I should expect to find the place, but it was, as it happened, just across Euston Road in the Standard Hotel. On arrival, a glamorous hostess checks my name off an iPad and bundles me somewhat unceremoniously into a lift, duvet coat, suitcase & all, with vague instructions to turn right & then left — or perhaps the other way round. Once on the 10th floor, I find my way into the restaurant proper. It is, at once, visually impressive, with a dark Iberian interior compensated for by the natural light pouring in from the floor to ceiling windows & views over the London skyline. Somebody offers to relieve me of my human duvet - I eagerly hand over my suitcase & handbag to the unsuspecting fellow too, and just hope he works there. I am led to my table, past numerous succulents, a long dark wood bar, a row of chefs pulling impressive looking theatrics, and am seated in a sunken area at the centre of the room, next to some kind of fire pit. The table is far larger than is conceivably needed by 2 people, although I later understand the logic when lots of small plates begin to pile up. For the time being, though, I sit down, remove my mask, & get my bearings. Surrounded by elegant diners I become aware, not for the first time that evening, that I really haven’t been out much. I’m still living in a world of zoom-from-the-waist-up attire, but it seems the rest of the world has fully embraced the return to some semblance of the life they had before. I’m not sure how I feel about this, so I focus on the succulents, and the way that the Spanish-Mexican fusion has been reflected in the decor. The furniture is all dark wood, with deep red tiling & upholstery. It is contemporary with a Latin flair, and conjures images of masked horsemen & a dry, arid landscape.
My thoughts of deserts, cacti, & Spanish men are interrupted with the arrival of my dining companion - a petite blonde American who does nothing to make me feel better about my sad quarantine leggings & trainers outfit. Elegant as ever she has been in the seven years I’ve known her &, as equally unsurprising of my glamorous friend, fresh off a transatlantic flight, we embrace for the first time in two years and settle down to examine the cocktail menu. As is perhaps unsurprising, the tequila list is one of the most extensive I’ve found in London. I order a tequila based cocktail called ‘The Desert Rose’. Our waitress — a bejewelled woman with perfect winged eyeliner and the most enviably skilful face of makeup, at least on the 50% of her face not covered by a mask — informs me that this is akin to an Old Fashioned, but with a tequila base. She’s not wrong. My dining companion, ever the adventurous one of the two of us, orders a mezcal margarita with no sugar & a hit of chilli.
Attention turns to the food. Our knowledgeable waitress expands on all her favourite items, although I have to stifle a laugh when she starts explaining how exquisite the scallops (which cost £16 each) taste, and attributes the flavour to the fact that divers collect them by hand in Orkney but have to dive twice to make them perfect, or something along those lines. She puts a hard sell on the pricey beasts — I, as a vegan, have a ready excuse to abstain, but my companion has no such card to pull so goes ahead & orders one. Once the waitress has gone my friend admits to me that she was very ill last weekend after eating a bad batch of oysters in Seattle, so isn’t overly inclined towards seafood at present, but perhaps the singular twice-dived hand-collected Orkney scallops will be worth it.
Along with the one £16 scallop, we order the cauliflower tacos — the cauliflower was, apparently, cooked three different ways. This sounded a little excessive for such a small amount of cauliflower but I gobble up the petite, open taco without complaint. On the waitress’ recommendation we also go for the marinated red peppers, which turn out to be more of a paste, albeit a very tasty one, and charred spring peas. I’m not sure if these are supposed to be eaten whole, charred pods and all, or removed from their pods like edamame. The first approach is somewhat unsatisfactory as, although as the name suggests these are tastily charred, the pods are extremely chewy and leathery. But the second approach results in accidentally shooting peas all over the table & floor, as they appear very resistant to fork capture & became somewhat lethal once any pressure is applied. The few that do make it to my mouth, though, are plump & tasty.
I have more success with the more conventional items - courgettes, asparagus, and fried potatoes. Delicately cooked & expertly seasoned, these are a joy to eat despite being such simple ingredients. For me, this is food at its best - uncomplicated, fresh, creative, and utterly delightful. The fried potatoes, served with vegan aioli (which is not on the menu, but available on request) are exceptionally good — beautifully crispy & golden yet light & soft in the middle — and a decent serving size, unlike some of the smaller plates. I order one of my companion’s bespoke mezcal margaritas, & begin to feel full.
As we eat & drink, slowly filling up, relaxing into our surroundings, and swapping stories from the past 14 months — those precious few hours that are gone in a breath, for with such a friend no amount of time could feel long enough when permanently divided by an ocean — the evening light fades over the London skyline, and small lights slowly flicker on around us. The dark & sultry interior, the flash of the fire pit & the silhouettes of the proud cacti, are an agreeable environment, especially as I begin to feel warm from the tequila & pleasantly full from the quality food. Yet there is, and remains, an anxiety in me about the pre-pandemic life which feels now to have belonged to someone else. She who wore the clothes that have hung untouched in my wardrobe — the silky tops, the tight jeans, the dresses that belong to another summer & another lifetime, she is no longer me. All around me, as I observe, in my tequila-infused musings, are people who have stepped comfortably back into the lives they had known before; like Covid was, and is, an inconvenient delay on the airstrip before take off. These people have walked back into a restaurant as though they have never been away, & laugh that carefree, unaffected laugh of one who is excited to be alive & free after so much time being restrained. But me? I have become my captivity — once free, I retain the anxious mind & dress of a captive who almost longs to return to the perceived security of her captor. It will take many more such evenings, I realise, before I have the mentality of a free person again. In time, my mind will dance at cacti & desert roses & Latin music & Spanish horsemen; the fading London light will be an object of beauty, not fear, & I too will laugh that carefree laugh again — for who, when lost in abundant conversation and joyous laughter and the choicest food, does not feel as though life will go on forever? But until then, mezcal & fluffy fried potatoes & the chatter of a reunited friend are enough to make my heart feel full.
After a few hours have whittled away, the plates fall empty & visions of arid deserts fade. For a luxurious restaurant, it is refreshingly unpretentious, and the bill comes promptly when I explain I have a train to catch. £85 lighter, I step out of the arid oasis, retrieve my baggage & puffy coat, and descend once more to the streets, becoming another dot for diners to look down on from the 10th floor as I re-enter the throw of ordinary life— & run unceremoniously for my train.