Morning:
8°c
Last week I ate at London's most discreet restaurant. I should have known it would end in disaster. If you're the sort of person who blunders through the velvet curtain (as if making an entrance on the Morecambe and Wise show) and collapses in front of the maître d' with large shopping bags, La Petite Maison in Mayfair is not for you.
With its frosted-glass windows and fresh Provençal cooking, the place attracts a starry clientele. People talk in awe of its sister restaurant in Nice (frequented by Elton John and Nicolas Sarkozy).
It is, ahem, out of my league. But on Friday night I was the guest of London's premier beauty queen, who has become a friend. A graceful figure, she never makes a fuss. She even enjoys the comedy of errors that is my love life. But she knows her restaurants.
Her secretary had booked our table for 7pm on Friday night months ago.
I was so pleased to see my friend I overlooked the obstacle course that is the posh restaurant (is anyone else a bit too fat to slide between tables?). The food was quite delicious. I loved the French "tapas" where you share up to 10 starters together. Although the waiters were a little too keen to refill our champagne glasses.
Suddenly Gwyneth Paltrow arrived with an entourage. Dressed in low-key black, she was sporting that exquisite no-make-up look. She sat down at the end of our row of banquettes. I was in ecstasy.
My friend looked on indulgently (she knows LOTS of film stars). But even she was fascinated by Gwynnie's dining companion: a tall Indian man with grey hair. "What's she doing with him?" she wondered. "Is it a film wrap party? Or a sponsored fashion event?" We watched in fascination as the man handed Gwynnie a Cartier box with some fine jewellery inside.
My friend reached for the menu. "Dessert, I think," she laughed.
At that very moment, the waiter interrupted us. "Sorry but you have to leave now. You should have finished at 9pm, it's 9.20pm now."
My friend was shocked. If we'd just turned up on the day, fair enough. But no one had ever mentioned anything about a time slot.
Presumably they wanted our table for Gwynnie's party. But my friend had spent well over £150. I'm not precious. But what if she'd been with a client?
To cut a long story short we ended up at Claridge's for dessert - where the staff were lovely.
La Petite Maison isn't for the faint-hearted. The French version has a patronne who won't let you in if she doesn't feel like it. But this is London in a recession. Let's not forget the restaurant industry is warning it could lose 45,000 jobs this year.
My friend is far too cool to say: "Don't you know who I am?" But who wants to go to a restaurant and feel like the equivalent of hospital bed blockers?
