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'.