24 October - Nobu & Willesden

This must be another one of those signs of getting old that I’m fond of pointing out to you. I was really looking forward to dinner at Nobu as for some reason had not gone there before and the reviews have always been excellent. I can’t fault the food at all, it was worth every penny and the staff were very knowledgeable and helpful, they did sound as if they’d tried every dish and had their faves. And when the light bulb died above our table, they moved us to another at the oppsite corner of the room and so we had a mini adventure, changing scenery, waiters and all that. However the room is not far off from an upmarket cafeteria, the noise pretty loud (blame it on low ceilings) and the clientele a little short on glamour given that they all looked like bankers and blondes to me. Seeing Gwynnie or Madge would not have significantly altered by evening either. So… being that the company was the delectable BF who I had already sampled aplenty the night before and that we had dinner out fatigue from previous days' outings, we were cautious with the alcohol…so we were done in 2 hours.

The next day I was exchanging emails about it and saying that I was just as happy with the trusted Asakusa in mornington crescent despite the fact that I hate the swiss hut/pub décor and the atrocious carpet. The formidable M. replied saying I should try this place on Willesden Green which is the best Japanese in North London according to her (we wouldn’t know of any Japanese south of the river of course, we only visit once a year if there’s a gig at the Academy). So, you’re asking, where’s the sign of ageing in that. It is within my thinking that yes, I’d like to try said Jap in Willesden Green (I can’t pretend I don’t know where it is being that various friends have crept up north of the Harrow Road over the years, but I certainly don’t visit willingly).

This thought was sustained by the other thought, if it’s just me and the BF and all we care ultimately is about the food and I can still wear a pretty frock in that manor should I want to (after all, nobody as much as turned a head when I wore it at Nobu), then it’s ok. We can go to Willesden Green. This is basically on the slippery road to having drinks in the local bar, eating locally and basically finding the West End too much of a stretch. This is what OLD people do. I refuse. So on principle, unless I’m discussing selling my movie script to Robert Redford and he specifically requests we eat at Sushi Say, I shall never go. That won’t keep any lines from adding themselves to my face but my soul will stay at age … er… 42 and a half.

Ps a further email exhange revealed that one of my oldest Japanese friends is a neighbour of one of the Nobu chefs (I think they have about 20 on the go on any one night) and so I could 'think' even older and just go round hers for dinner and eating what he's prepared and passed on to her.