Cooking Up a (Hash) Storm

I haven't forgotten about you!  The title is a misnomer, of course.  I don't cook anything personally.  I have people for that.  But I wanted to drop in and let you know that I'm supervising some "fun" "party" recipes for your next little do.   It requires some rather exotic ingredients, but the end result is absolutely brilliant, I think you'll agree.

Alfie's Hunting Hutch

There's a lovely little club/restaurant I adore, called Alfie's Hunting Hutch.  Like a lot of other Sloaney establishments, it relishes and exploits old-timey sport and endlessly mocks those poor sods who must go to work in fancy dress.  I cannot imagine the shame of wearing leiderhosen on the Tube, but thankfully, I'll never have to.  I will, of course, immediately lose interest in Alfie's once the novelty wears off.

Alfie's is scrumptiously decorated like an old-fashioned hunting lodge.  There are all kinds of dead things on the walls.  Alfie once told me that he sent out a squadron of waiters to go gun down animals found on properties around West Hampstead.  It was on the news and everything, though thankfully nobody was harmed.  Still, Alfie had quite a bit of explaining to do, what with all the piles of dead terriers in the alleyway.

Only a few pets were harmed in the making of this photo.

At any rate, Alfie's is first-rate dining.  It's all game meat, which tastes terrible, but the concept is so delightfully twee that nobody can resist it, not even old Fiona, who insists on tagging along to all these things and refuses to do anything but a melancholy duckface in all the photos.  Cheer up, Fi!  I'm sure your landed-gentry fellow isn't really buggering the stable manager.

If you find yourself at Alfie's, do order the Anti, which is the biggest drink they offer.  Enjoy it with a group of friends.  It will, as the name suggests, turn you into rather a saboteur, both of your good time and your sex in general.  Though it will also, as the hunting lore indicates, make you as biddable as a pack of checked hounds. 



That's Alfie in the middle.  Later on, he shagged Fi in the ladies'.



Day Three in Paris

Today is our last day in Paris, and Mum was all, 'Maybe we should see some paintings or something,' so we ate breakfast and went to the Musee d"Orsay, which was okay but increds boring. And then we went to lunch at Hotel Coste (I can always spell the names of the expensive restaurants correctly, have you noticed?), which is where I always go when I'm in Pareeee, and we had exactly the same thing I had when I was here last year with my boyfriend Cousin Niles, like, exactly -- the pepper steak and the langoustine risotto. I am so cosmopolitan that I can take things in Paris for granted. I am perfection.



I think I remember "Coste" because it sounds like money.



Mum noticed that I was tittering through the risotto and raised an eyebrow and said, 'Goodness, Jonquil, I certainly hope you don't intend to make a spectacle of yourself this year at Christmas,' and I said, 'Oh pipe down, you old bat; the only spectacle I see here is your haircut,' and she sighed and paid the cheque and I just love my mum.

And then we went back to the hotel so we could pack up and so I could nick all the soaps and the bathrobes and the lamps. I highly recommend the Hyatt Vendome, it's super pricey and exclusive and you can get excellent coke there. Just tell them Jonquil sent you, but also be aware that if you say this, Jonathan in the hair salon may expect a blowjob. Swallow, darling; spitting is declasse.

Days One and Two in Paris

This weekend Mum took me to Paris! I was told it was a shopping trip, but really it was supposed to be a scolding for that pesky interlude I had with Cousin Niles last Christmas. Honestly, do second cousins really even count as family? It's not our fault Auntie Gertrude was wandering down to the wine cellar in the middle of the night.



A little chilly, but decidedly worth it.



Anyway. Mum went to the Louvre to 'draw', which is what she tells me when she goes to have a consult with the French plastic surgeon (hopefully he will find a way to surgically remove all that tartan plaid). I went down in my slippers, because I am a delightful, artless ingenue, to the hair salon where I paid a man $250 American to do my hair exactly the way I do it every day. But it was world famous, and also, he sold me a gramme of cocaine, so it was worth it.

Super high quality!  Thanks, Hyatt!  And Jonathan from the salon!

Later, Mum and I went shopping at the Gallerie Lafayette, and also along the Champs-Elysees, which I cannot spell, even though I have presumably been to France at least two dozen times. Oh well, that's what the hired help are for, n'ess pah?

Mum bought a slew of anti-aging serums made from secret Tibetan placentas, and I bought some naughty lingerie on the sly and covered it up with a fur coat so Mum wouldn't notice. Mum loves fur, so she didn't mind that I bought a coat for $56,000. I'll likely never wear it anyway, since it was only to hide the crotchless panties made of platinum thread; but perhaps I can persuade Cousin Niles to fuck me on it in front of a fire on Boxing Day.

All in all, an excellent trip.