Helga Leith Darling! Pre-curtain at the Lasdun
Well, naturally one must dine before the theatre. And where else but Denys Lasdun’s brutalist temple on the South Bank, that concrete cathedral where culture and cuisine perform their nightly pas de deux?
The setting: communal tables groaning under the weight of middle-class aspiration and excellent stemware. The lighting: that particular golden hour glow that makes everyone look like they’ve just closed a three-picture deal. The company: decidedly of a certain age, which is to say, people who remember when the National was still called the National.
Enter Jordanne, our server, stage left. A complimentary vodka martini materialized like Banquo’s ghost - crisp, cold, necessary. One simply cannot face Synge without gin. Or vodka. The distinction becomes academic after the first sip.
Then the Veuve Clicquot. Brut. Obviously brut. We’re not animals.
But the star turn belonged to the Dover sole - a whole fish, darling, none of this filleted nonsense - glistening like Gielgud under the lights, adorned with brown shrimp like so many tiny character actors supporting the lead. The seaweed butter provided umami depths that would make Stanislavski weep. Accompanied by creamed spinach so verdant, so unctuous, it deserved its own curtain call.
The sole itself?
Perfectly timed, like Judi Dench’s delivery. Flaking at the merest suggestion of the fork, sweet flesh that sang of Dover, of grey seas, of everything English and eternal.
And then: interval. Time for Playboy. Time for Christy Mahon’s lies and Ireland’s truth.
But first: this perfect fish, this perfect moment, this perfect London evening.
★★★★★
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