Denise Mullen

Denise Mullen is a journalist, columnist, writer and entrepreneur.

Tom, Nicole and, Inexplicably ‘Fronk’ the Unintelligible Wedding Planner from that Classic Movie ...Father of the Bride

By Denise Mullen

It’s not every day one explores the hospitality haunts of A-listers (even if they split up later – ah, remember Tom and Nicole?). So, I was really looking forward to our grown-up ladies’ evening of fine dining at this Michelinstarred restaurant.

The establishment was newly re-opened after an expensive bout of cosmetic surgery involving things (and I’m hazarding a guess here) like moving the horizon; personalising the weather. You know, the sort of bold design statements that translate, roughly, as – ‘let’s spend oodles of money on pointless demonstrations of excess.’ They are the sort of modifications that you don’t notice. They have to be pointed out to you, together with how much they cost.

That, and that the first Mr & Mrs Cruise had, allegedly, once had dinner there (pre the restaurant’s latest nips and tucks). Given they’ve been split up since forever, it’s probably getting a little old now as a claim to fame, but hey ho.

So, there we were. Five women pushing the boat out. One of us pregnant and, unbeknownst to the rest of us, only able to eat cheese and potatoes. So she was going to be disappointed for most of our dinner. Of course, she was drinking no alcohol. At least her status meant the eyewateringly expensive wine went further for the remaining band of four.

The aesthetics were good, the wine was phenomenal, the food was indescribable (some good indescribable, some not so good) and the maître d’ incomprehensible. The company was incomparable, so we were ok on that score. The menu had to be described, in full, by the maître d’ we referred to as Father of the Bride Movie wedding planner tribute act ‘Fronk’. Some kind of foreign accent, we think the language he was using may have been English, but none of us are sure.

So: this restaurant’s speciality confit eggs. I don’t care how long they cook them to make them appear and taste raw again. My brain KNOWS that dry ice isn’t going to deliver sunny-side-up versions of the two glutinous globes shimmying in a bed of hay that appears to be smouldering, but my heart hopes it will. The contents of the dish were duly re-organised politely and left resting in little deconstructed piles on our plates until removed.

More wine - and sparkling water for our cheese and potato hopeful who was getting very hungry.

By this stage we’ve gone through the amuse bouche, or ‘abused mush’ (Scousers’ favourite), with the aid of maître d Fronk’s long, rambling and completely impossible description. We all nodded enthusiastically. He withdrew. I venture: ‘Did anyone understand anything he said?’ We all shake our heads and gamely give whatever is dished up a bash. The next wine is beautiful, it’s a soaring triumph.

Food-wise, we arrive at what appears to be an upended spoonful of rice pudding with a little frog of bright green mousse on top. There are tiny ‘sails’ of some sort of minty (or is it lime, no it was lime, yes, lime) cracker. The frog foam tastes of soap powder. We all leave this repulsive looking – and tasting – concoction and have to console a distraught Fronk for at least 15 minutes.

More stunning wine. Gorgeous, great company, huge fun ripples across more courses.

By the time we’ve journeyed through around five courses and are still ravenous, for those who have chosen it, the puddings arrive.

Some of it appears to be beetroot and liquorice, it may have been beetroot and liquorice ice cream. I had opted for the cheeseboard. A huge trolley of cheese arrives. I choose two miniscule slices from two enticing-looking wedges across of a mountain range of goats’ cheese and the odd Stinking Bishop.

Before I can help myself to a third wedge of creamy indulgence all hell breaks loose as women around the table spot food they can both identify and possibly enjoy sanstrepidation. They wade in. Pregnant lady is elbowing fellow diners out of the way as she spots the Cheddar. Soon I have a plate of 12 cheeses, and have to ask for, well, a plate, in fact more plates. Like the crows in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic thriller ‘The Birds’ we dive in. Bliss.

There is more wine, further bliss.

We are sitting in opulent surroundings; we suspect the designer was contracted from the firm of ‘I Saw You Coming.’

Some of the food has been lovely, some of it has fallen short and, apart from the cheese and crackers, no course has taken more than two mouthfuls to eat.

Probably the most expensive cheese and wine evening ever attended by any of us, and poor Pregnant Lady couldn’t even get a side order of chips (even if she did try asking for ‘frites’). LANCASHIRE & NORTH WEST MAGAZINE 167