Fernando Peire - The Ivy Now

Contents

RECIPE NOTES

The oven temperatures given in the recipes are for fan-assisted (convection) ovens.

Ingredients are listed in UK metric, followed by US cup/ imperial measurements. Please follow one system of measurement when following the recipes.

It was seven thirty on a Tuesday night in August one of those humid nights when you wonder why anyone at all stays in a busy city like London during the summer. Tony Curtis, who up until now had been sitting anonymously on a bar stool and chattingamiably with the barman, suddenly appeared beside me, Martini in hand.

He paused to rest an arm on my shoulder as I stood at the matre ds desk, the nerve centre of The Ivy at night and where three telephones were ringing constantly with people trying desperately to book last-minute tables. Curtis was looking out acrossthe dining room.

What a wonderful crowd you have here tonight, Captain! he bellowed. I must say. No truly

Id heard him say exactly the same thing at six thirty.

The face may have aged a half-century, but Tony Curtis still possessed the same mellifluous voice that had made him so famous across the globe. As shirtsleeves were tugged and ribs prodded all around us, he held my hand tightly, only squeezing it harder if I tried to move away to answer the backlog of calls. He was performing and suddenly I was his co-star.

If I had thought about it, I would have imagined Curtis to be a difficult man to upstage, in his eccentrically tailored black suit and oversize-collared white shirt, accessorised with a huge, satin-ribboned war medal. But then the blonde walked in, all peroxide hair, bright red lipstick, five-inch stilettos and the tightest, shortest and whitest miniskirt in the world. She was like a giant Marilyn Monroe, only draped in albino fur.

SIR MICHAEL PARKINSON

broadcaster

One marvellous Ivy moment? When Billy Connolly and I were asked to pipe down, just a wee bit, because we were laughing too loudly for our next-door neighbours. Billy could have that aect on people who couldnt understand his boisterous nature. Otherwise, all I mostly remember is feeling slightly drunk and full of food to the brim. Its the only memory you require from dining in a great restaurant.

This is my darling wife Jill, Curtis purred as he released my hand to caress her waist. Jill Vandenberg, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Standing at least two feet taller than Curtis, she also looked like the happiest woman in the world.

The food here is truly excellent, Curtis boomed as he began to smack his lips. We absolutely adore the food at The Ivy. Dont we, Jill?

As more jaws dropped and with the room falling into virtual silence, Curtiss eyes shone ever brighter. Mouthing silent greetings and coyly waving with his fingers to anyone that caught his eye, his famous camp streak went into overdrive. Not for the first time, I wondered when someone would shout Cut! Cut! This was a virtuoso performance, particularly given that Mr Curtis almost never ate at The Ivy. He preferred to come in for a Martini and a chat with the barman before disappearing somewhere else for dinner.

Every day and every night, The Ivy is a stage on which a play is performed. The actors are the regulars drawn from the worlds of the arts and business who have more than a passing interest in whos eating with whom and sneaking glances to see how X is looking, after Y sued, sacked or seduced them; they are famous people who want to be seen, sheltered or something in between; they are characters in a more personal story of a couple on a first date, a family celebration or one friend gossiping with another. Some of these players sit in the wings, others take centre stage, but all have their part to play. The Ivy is theatre.

There is just one golden rule: there are no stars of the show. The Ivy might be good at letting people perform, but it isnt a restaurant for show-offs. We like to think of it as a meritocracy. Some people may be able to get a reservation more easily than others, but once in The Ivy, everyone is equal. In fact, we rarely let the waiters know anything about the people they are serving; we want them to treat everyone the same.

DAWN FRENCH

actor

Once, I was having lunch in The Ivy with Jennifer and a playwright whose play we were in at the time, Mary Agnes Donoghue. Terry Gilliam came in and said hello to a few folk at various tables, including us. I asked what he was doing there and he said he was having lunch with an actor from a film he had just directed called Twelve Monkeys. This meant zilch to me so we wished him well and he went to sit at his table and wait for his guest.

Then, Brad Pitt walked in. Angels sang and my ovaries woke up. He walked over to Terrys table and greeted him with a huge hug.

Throughout lunch I tried to concentrate on our meeting, but just couldnt stop sneaking a peek at the divine Mr P, who is seriously beautiful. More so in the flesh. The beautiful flesh.

I faked a trip to the loo, I asked a waiter for a pad and pen, and I wrote a note to Terry, which read as follows: Make Brad kiss me as if he adores me, or I will kill your family. Fact. Love, Dawn of French x.

I witnessed the note being secretly delivered, and Terry shot me a cheeky wink.

I did then concentrate on the meeting in hand, and so was utterly shocked when an hour or so later, Brad Pitts lipswere suddenly on mine. Well actually, half on and half off, because I was caught mid-turn, to my eternal regret. He said something like, Hey Dawn, great to see you, God you look gorgeous. I can see youre busy right now, but is there any chance we can hook up again, I would sooo love that, can I call you? [makes a phone gesture with fingers to ears] Please?! Then he waved and was gone. I turned back to Jennifer and Mary Agnes to find their jaws on the floor. As were the jaws of most of the diners.

I managed to keep my cool for about a minute and pretended that yeah, Brad and I were involved, but eventually couldnt suppress my glee, or my wet pants, so I owned up to my lunch buddies that I am a shameless tart.