Last night I went to a dinner for Lahore’s beautiful people, a crowd I was not particularly interested in when I lived in Lahore, and even less so now that I feel so far away. It’s funny though how one can feel sad about not fitting in, even with a group one doesn’t particularly want to fit in with. I think some of it is to do with the fact that I feel that perhaps I should fit it, that this is the place I was supposed to be in, which much of my near and far family inhabits naturally, but I don’t.
The dinner was at a place called Fred the Kitchen, which is a popup supper club above a shop. Fred, I understand, is short for Food, Research, Experience and Design, and it hosts chefs for supper clubs – recent chefs have included a ramen specialist and someone who was very proud of having cooked for Obama. They are flown in, as are the ingredients and the general look and feel, so it is as expensive as one might imagine, definitely heading into Michelin territory in terms of price and pretension if little else. The owner was a bit sheepish about the ingredient sourcing, but since even the water was Perrier local didn’t seem a top priority.
The food was largely good, though generally misjudged. It was a six course meal planned, prepared and served by a local chef who specialises in meat, and clearly had no idea of quantities or serving large parties. So it started with copious amounts of bread with a decent tapenade and another spread, followed by individual vats of pumpkin soup with a chunk of brie floating in it. This was followed by a salad with smoked tuna – good dressing and a bit of freshness which was generally lacking in the meal. Then the highlight of the meal, which were the best burgers I’ve had in Lahore. These were excellent and were a main course in themselves, but they were followed by immense tubs of macaroni and cheese, smoked brisket and tortillas: stodgy and a somewhat nonsensical combination unless one is Texan, I suppose. This defeated pretty much everyone – the plates went away barely touched. A palate cleanser followed. It was by now 1 in the morning; I had hoped to be home by 1130, and there were three more courses to go, including the next one which I could see being plated: a squid ink risotto with braised lamb. Again, seriously misjudged, and full main course portions and, if the other courses were any indication, likely to be served cold because they clearly didn’t have the hang of timing. I had looked forward to the dessert, which was tarte tatin, but when someone else who was suffering as much as I asked if I wanted a ride home I said yes, gratefully.
It was all extravagant and overdone in a way that I find it hard not to be a prune-faced prude about. And so much food wasted, leaving aside the Perrier.
Then of course there was the company. All were beautiful, of course: and all the women but me and one other had long large blowdried hair. I thought I was being uncharitable when I thought to myself that many of the women looked identical, but this being Lahore many were in fact related to each other (and to me) and it turned out there was at least one pair of identical twins there, though I’m ashamed to admit I couldn’t work out which two of the women present.
As the Iowa caucuses sputtered and failed in America, Lahore’s beautiful people caucused for Bernie, with one holdout standing for Marianne Williamson and another speaking approvingly of Bloomberg.
At one point they did shots and I am grateful to be old enough that I could stand firm and say no, and just sip my very tasty pomegranate punch instead.
At another point there were rival lectures, one from someone who was considered spiritual as she was a pescatarian, and another who had just read Dawkins and watched a documentary about how people used to be in 4D and are now in 3D.
At each place there was a painted leaf as a name card, a menu, a biography of the chef in print so small it was unreadable, and the concept of the meal, which described the team as ‘ranging from ex McKinsey and Apple employees to artists and fulltime chefs. It doesn’t get much more indie than this.’
I do wonder about people who work at McKinsey sometimes, and how many of them seem to have an empty space within that they try and fill.
And finally, overheard from someone sitting next to me:
Whenever I go out on High Street Ken, there are so many homeless! I don’t know their names, so I call them all Ken. Yes, all the homeless men are called Ken. All the homeless women –
And then she was distracted and the conversation went elsewhere.
And so, my toe-dip in the Lahore that I have always watched from the sidelines and which I am happy to remain far away from.