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Postcard Postcard from London - Dec 05
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WE WERE QUITE LATE to the Georgian restaurant, which lies under the roof of Harrods. It's an attractive open space, a pianist was playing a lovely grand piano under the large, glass roofed atrium. Even though we only go there at Christmas time, I still recognise the waiters and Maitre D ’, to whom I explained I needed a smoking table. Nice meal, nice piano, and all was well with the world, when a couple of arabic looking gentleman were shown to the adjacent table. Dressed in suits, in their early thirties - nothing remarkable in that - but I had my eye on them, as one does these days. |
I reckoned that, with their softer features, they probably hailed from the Libyan region, and weren’t without money though the shorter one had a weak smile and the other looked tougher when he laughed.
Nudge-nudge, wink-wink ,who’s this? It’s Dodi’s daddy, Mr Harrods himself without his bunch of minders, coming our way. Passsing by and flashing that confident, El Fayed smile, he seated himself at our neighbours’ table.
They were in earnest discussion when we came to leave. ‘Nothing to lose’, I thought, as we stood to go. “Excuse me, Mr Fayed, but can I say what a wonderful restaurant you have here.”
He stood up from his meal. “We always come here once a year for our Christmas treat,” I explained. “Very kind,” he said with a grin, spying my wife and, walking round to her said: “Let’s have a kiss” and proceeded to do just that. Well, he’s the boss there isn’t he.
‘That’s an interesting arabic custom,’ I thought, and said: “Thank you; you remind me of my older brother.” He wasn’t impressed, so I added: “Well, younger really,” and gave him a guffaw as we departed.
The moral of the story? Now you know why women are encouraged to wear the Bhurka in Arabia.
