VIP MoS E@L
CChhhheeerrriiisssst, what a hangover. What was I drinking? Bleary eyeball to the clock - it's 13:30, time for an early breakfast of mouthwash. Did something die in my mouth?
Where was I? What did I do?
Dinner last night was at my friends T&P's place, and we had a celebrity chef - Phil Sedwick formerly of the Peninsula in Hong Kong, now Executive Chef at the Peninsula in Bangkok (not as rumoured in these pages previously, going to Macau, although the money was better).
I snapped some pictures of the meal with my new mobile phone, the Nokia E61i - it works damn well in low light though I had to correct a greenish hue to look at them on the computer. Resolution is obviously not brilliant, but it certainly is functional enough for the hasty grab of a funny scene when I don't have the P5000 with me, which is most of the time. The camera on the Dopod 838 was absolute crap - you couldn't read a t-shirt or a sign with its output.
OK: the meal.
First course was gazpacho with scrumptiously and cholesterollingalongnicely done croutons and some simple herbed pan-fried prawns. The main herb was merely oregano, but it tasted like we were in Spain or France. Did I mention I am going to Paris later this year. And to Chicago? Question, am I staying at the Chicago Peninsula? At $600 per night, it's unlikely. I'll certainly try the restaurants though if the food is as nice as this... (Ignore P's rack and concentrate on the food...)
Second course was seared tuna with an avocado, tomato and kalamata olive salsa. Side dish of delicious tangy lemon risotto. Not overly tangy, just zesty enough.
Tip from the chef: no garlic, onion or cheese in a risotto like this, or indeed with seafood risotto, as the flavours are too strong.
Wine was Piper Heidsieck champagne.
I don't normally drink champagne...
After getting way smashed on that and then on some cheap Aussie plonk, I shared a taxi with one of the other guests. I assumed I was going to get dropped at home but then he said he had a bottle of Chivas that was going to expire soon in the Ministry of Sound VIP room. He'd recieved a Temporary Membership voucher from some company party he had attended there recently. That Chivas needed drinking and he needed some help getting it under control. Naturally I decided to join, and so we changed our destination to Clarke Quay.
He was married and I was past sensible so we didn't check out the chicks... much.
When we had negotiated the smokey corridors and looming bouncers by flashing our neon wrist stamps and came into the VIP room, we made a beeline to a couch that was free. We sat for a while chatting intently about fucked if I know what. The manager soon came over and discreetly asked us to vacate the couch as it was reserved. Sure, we shrugged, no big deal. We moved to the bar where our Chivas awaited. No-one sat on the couch for the next 2 hours.
The conversation then turned to how even if you do get into the VIP room, there are hierarchies and pecking orders, and you are never made to feel completely as ease. "The couch is reserved, sir." For someone more important, famous, better-looking, younger than you, is the unstated part of the message.
Just getting in to Ministry of Sound was achievement enough in my book. Not that I've ever been tempted to try the queue. Even on the main dancefloor and bar, I am sure there is a pecking order of good better best: which table to sit at, where to stand, what to drink, how to act, what to wear, which waiter to be chatty with, which to be disdainful towards... People are noticing you, assessing your attitude, the signals you are sending about how cool you are... You are assessing them in return. It's how it works. From your barstool you might glance surreptitiously up to the windows of the VIP room above and pretend you don't really want to go up there, but you do.
Why is that old fat bald guy going up there and you are not? You want to be important enough to be a VIP member, but the truth is you just don't move in the right circles to know the right people, the "important" people, the rock-stars, the billionaires and their pedicurists and stylists, not to mention the ones who fluked a free ticket at a company function... because you, sitting there by yourself risking a White Russian in the waves of stomach churning sub-sonics, are not in an important circle at all.
And looking totally at ease with the presitige, the old fat bald guy stumbles on the doorstep and pratfalls into the room...
Circles within circles. It's all about circles. Whose circles you are tonguing...
And I don't normally drink whiskey either...
Vague memories of 3am, jumping the taxi queue and taking a Mercedes cab home.
OTHER MONKEYS SAID
Its all about circles...either up or down, its all just chasing your frikkin tail :-)
I'm sorry I was too busy staring at the chesticular area.
Forgot to mention we also sank some Chilean white at the Wine Network before dinner...
Another wasted Sunday.