“How is it I know more about this place than you do, and I’m the one who’s been in Bangaluru for the past year?”
Pachry was nothing if not forthright. He would never disguise his consternation at his colleagues’ ignorance, particularly for those of us at the Arb who claim to be on top of London’s fine dining scene. My erstwhile colleague had left our pages for a stint at India’s preeminent news rag and had returned to London on business; I’d like to think that behind his pointed jibes there was a genuine affection that warranted our catching up, particularly since the venue I’d chosen for our rendezvous I thought might have appealed to his sensibilities. I fear, however, it was because I was an easy target for ridicule.
We were luncheoning that day at Scarfe’s, an establishment whose very essence oozed what makes up The Arbuturian. Its pedigree, as bar and dining at the Rosewood Hotel in Holborn (I doubt I could ever get used to calling it Midtown – and what happened to ‘Bloomsbury’ anyway?) notwithstanding, it’s so named for the specifically-commissioned decor by illustrious illustrator and satirist, Gerald Scarfe.
It is, in short, a gentleman’s club for everyone; studded leather armchairs sit astride a magnificent hearth, bookshelves bulge with leather-bound tomes, deep velvet banquettes offer niched dining quarters and a magnificent mahogany bar runs half the length of the room, all encased spectacularly in marble panelling, corinthian columns and stupendously bold oxidised copper light fittings suspended from the ceiling. What’s more, room is made for a grand piano at the corner of the bar. Not here are tables squeezed in like their bottom line depended on it. It’s as if it had been designed to navigate you from a martini as you stepped in, to a bottle of claret over lunch and a Lagavulin to close proceedings with the sports pages by the fire; the sort of lunches that city executives and Fleet Street hacks might have indulged in when luncheoning was exactly that, and not some half-baked flatbread wrap snatched on the fly.
Flatbreads are on the menu, however, for the cuisine is Indian. Hence, my optimism that I’d be impressing my co-diner. It’s daring, too. Bar snacks tantalise with ‘gunpowder’ chicken, mint mutton cutlets and a ‘hog jowl and marrow fat pea samosa’. If you thought you’d dipped your toe in the Raj during an episode of the dismally patronising Indian Summers currently insulting our screens on Channel 4, you’ve been perilously misguided. As I sat at the bar waiting for Pachry to arrive – and I thought I was impunctual – I practically weeped with longing at the cocktail menu; it’s as if it was written for me. Such delectable libations as Made for Gentlemen and Sipping with Churchill vied for my delight as The Humidor and Diplomatic Immunity buried this building’s fabric into my affections. I had to pass, alas, not out of duty to my abstemious friend soon to join me, but because I simply couldn’t decide.
Pachry arrived presently and before he even shook me stiffly by the hand managed to squeeze in an anecdote about the time Scarfe offered to sketch him for a column he was working on for a previous publication. He prised me from the bar stool I’d grown an affinity for as the music moved from effortless jazz to an almost comedic bossa dub fusion, its baseline bouncing to Pachry’s gait, as we made our way to the table.
Once offered the menus, I barely got a look in and the waitress couldn’t evade capture as Pachry reeled off a string of orders. The offering, while not extensive, seemed finely tuned. “We’ll start with the Soa Rawas and the Tulsi Paneer Badami,” Pachry intoned, “and follow with your Kerelan Biriyani and the Aloo Gobhi Mattar. I’ve heard wonderful things about it.” The waitress lit up, less from the swiftness of the order, more from the warmth that seemed to emanate from Pachry’s gaze. He is a charmer. He shot me a look. “Do you want some wine, Larry?” I nodded, guiltily, thinking of the missed opportunity for dutch courage at the bar. “A glass of your 2011 Bonny Doon for my friend,” he said. I was so moved by that term of endearment I’d quite dismissed the fact he’d ordered my wine, when he wasn’t even indulging.
It was a delightful, delectable meal, punctuated by a commentary from my esteemed Indian friend. Our taste buds had been piqued with the cardamom paneer ‘pocket’ – “We’re a vegetarian nation,” Pachry had told me disconsolately, “why wouldn’t we know how to make dishes work without meat?” – and tandoor salmon infused with sweet and sour of honey and lemon. These made way for the home comforts of a traditional cauliflower and pea curry – “Not quite as good as my mother’s, but a good effort nonetheless” – but it was the biryani which had me. It was unlike anything I’d ordered in Brick Lane; supremely tender beef – “Yes, some of us do eat cow” – in a rich sesame and peanut salan gravy; it was all I could do to lick the bowl afterward. As Pachry talked at me through our engagement, I caught a glimpse of John Major on the far wall being impaled by a Britannia-like Thatcher, and felt a pang of sympathy. What a joy to catch up with an old friend.
Later, as the afternoon drifted on and we – well, me – gradually recovered from our post-prandial excesses, Pachry made his leave and I stayed for that aforementioned calming Lagavulin by the fire. As I dipped into my inbox, laptop over my knees, I noticed something curious about Scarfe’s; the lunch covers had quietened as we had concluded our meal but I was now suddenly aware of a hum of activity. Every bar stool was taken, every armchair occupied, the music had been turned up a notch. People were sipping wines and held tumblers of amber liquids; there was an air of genuine conviviality. Have I been here that long, I wondered? Is it dark outside? Are people leaving their desks? They were indeed, but it was barely past 4pm.
Marvellous, I thought. Scarfe’s really does encourage the old school.
For more information about Scarfe’s Bar, including details of potions, paintings and what’s on, visit www.scarfesbar.com.
From Sunday 1st March, Scarfe’s Bar is serving a special Sunday wine menu in conjunction with the Rosewood London Slow Food & Living Market. The menu includes a carefully curated selection of organic and biodynamic wines – all sourced from the Slow Food & Living Market that takes place every Sunday in the hotel’s peaceful inner courtyard.
The meal aside, Larry’s lunch was not without success. Rahman Pachry has promised to return to the Arb for a special commission or two in the future. We shall keep you informed.
