I am Marmite - love me or loath me...then ask me if I care.
I am Marmite - love me or loath me...then ask me if I care.
Member since:04.05.2001
Reviews:110
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This op has been revised a tiny bit, and therefore moved closer to Part Two - L'Ecole.
The great thing about being an old phart is that there tends to be a bit more disposable income around than when I was younger…in direct proportion to the number of bijou Sleevies who have up-sticks and bogged off, it would seem.
Another redeeming feature of being an old phart is that, having done the wage-slave thing for a few years and having been made redundant (three times in two years – and I’m still doing the same job) and having gone freelance and having had a few rough years and…and…all that sort of thing, I now find myself doing OK. Old, fat, balding, yes…all of those, but basically OK. Certainly OK enough for Mrs Sleevie and I to treat ourselves and/or each other well now and again.
So along comes yet another birthday (I swear, I’m losing count - I seem to have one every bloody year!) and Mrs Sleevie looks up from her book (“ 1001 Things You Didn’t Know About Sleeves” I think it was) and says
“So…what do you fancy doing for your birthday?”
I’ve taken out the expletives – I didn’t think you’d mind.
“Dunno.” I said…never short of an apposite quip. “Meal out?”
Again, I’ve deleted the naughty sailor words…you don’t want to know some of those words…I never should have let her take that job at Leith Docks when she was younger.
Anyway, the upshot of all this swearing and the like was that the small, but perfectly formed Mrs Sleevie booked me a place at the cookery school attached to Le Manoir Aux Quat’ Saisons; Raymond Blanc’s rather upmarket little ‘café with rooms’ at Great Milton, near Oxford.
The deal was that we would arrive on a Sunday and be given a room (we had to give it back, sadly, but we did get to stay a night in it first) and would then have dinner in the restaurant, (2 Michelin stars, more rosettes than the average gymkhana, and when the AA inspector took a look, he imploded. We are talking drop-dead posh and nobby here) and then the next day, I would take my place with a select
handful of like-minded souls in the kitchens of Le Manoir.
La Sleevie had to pay for her own food, but I would be getting the Menu Degustation and breakfast included in the price of the cookery course.
I neglected to ask Shortie details of what this little lot was likely to cost, as my doctor takes a decidedly dim view of people putting themselves under unnecessary stress. I somehow knew, though, that it wasn’t going to be what you’d call cheap…don’t ask me how I knew, I must just be psychic!
All this stuff was arranged well in advance of my October birthday, but even so the first date on which there was a vacancy for the school’s one-day ‘Dinner Party’ course was mid-March, which says something for the popularity of these events.
The upside of this was that I had plenty of time to get all excited about my pressie; 5 months, all told. I’m not sure how I kept the excitement going…drink, probably!
Then…a phone call from Le Manoir. La Sleevie takes the call. There’s been a cock-up…the phone call goes on…and on…there are no raised voices, so it can’t be too bad, and no sweary stuff either…must be OK. She hangs up. I look across at her with expectant eyebrows (that’s raised, not pregnant you understand).
“Well? What was all that about?” I ask
“They’ve made a little mistake” Was the reply.
“Do I still get to go?”
“Oh yes, no problem there. It’s just that since we made our booking, they’ve realised that the 17th of March is the 18th anniversary of their opening, and it’s also St Patrick’s Day. They’re having a gala dinner, black tie, music.”
I gave her my best “…and this affects me how?” look, learned from my teenage daughter.
“So, you get a seven-course gala dinner with all your wine instead of the menu degustation, and I just pay for the gala dinner instead of whatever a la carte I would have had, and I don’t have to pay for the ridiculously expensive wine you like to order when we go out for a bit of posh. It’s all included.”
“Result, then?”
“You bet your sweet, fuzzy *********!” she said. (make up your own jokes here please)
So off we jolly well go, along the M40 from our London home, leaving the motorway just before Oxford and navigating the country roads the couple of short miles to Le Manoir; a house so beautiful that I can’t really start to put it into words. Instead I’d encourage you to take a look at their website at www.manoir.com where you can take a virtual tour. Much better than having Sleevie ranting about how wonderful the place looks.
As you’d expect from a really top-flight hotel, the check-in is efficient, friendly and personal. Every one of the staff who passes by as you go through the formalities greets you. Most are French, though quite a few are English, and the majority are quite young.
Bags disappear, and the receptionist tells us that the final touches are being put to our room. Would we perhaps like some tea or coffee in the library?
Tea? Coffee? We’ll have a couple of glasses of something chilled, white and alcoholic please, and a selection of sandwiches…please.
I swear that between being seated and us being served two large glasses of a thoroughly lovely New Zealand Sauvignon and a tray of delicate but VERY tasty sandwiches, fully seven different members of staff had found something to do in respect of getting the table ready, giving us napkins, polishing our shoes, washing our hair and the like…OK, I confess. I made up a couple of those bits, but there really were seven people getting about their business being nice to us and not being obsequious or grovelly in any way…which was a relief, I can tell you.
Wine and sandwiches done, we were shown to our room. This was in an annexe to the main house, built of similar stone and looking every bit as old as the original building, even though it has only stood there for about 5 years.
Our room was the size of a decent European country, with a bed larger than many a nation-state. Soft classical music issued from somewhere. A bowl of fruit and a decanter of sherry stood on a side table. French windows led out onto a small terrace and from there out into the gardens. Critically though, I couldn’t see a telly. This was a real problem, as it was a Grand Prix weekend, and I’m not at all fond of missing Grand Prix. Even Raymond Blanc would have a hard time coaxing me into missing a race!
Help was at hand though, as the young lady who was showing us the room walked over to a massive wooden chest at the foot of the bed and pressed a switch, at which the entire centre of the chest rose majestically upwards to reveal…the stereo and a number of CDs, a radio, and most importantly a television! The whole affair, once raised from the base, swivelled round so that the telly could be watched from one of the four chairs the room contained or from the bed. Bliss.
The bathroom was another adventure entirely. A substantial stroll across a marble floor to an astonishing bath. Big enough for a party, and with more variations on the themes of taps, showers and bidets than you could shake a bog brush at. Two sinks, toiletries by Molten Brown, towels so fluffy I could barely get my bag closed the next day, bathrobes…even one that fitted my generous bulk!
So – Grand Prix over, and some serious lounging around done, it was almost time to think about starting to consider the possibility of perhaps getting sort of ready to go to dinner.
And so we had a bath. Over which I draw a discrete veil. After all, I already said it was big enough to host a party – we just HAD to make sure!
Then it was into the black tie stuff. I actually own a dinner jacket and all the accoutrements as a result of once having a bit-part as a bouncer at a nightclub in Boon (remember Boon? Michael Elphick?) I had rented the suit, but when I went to take it back, the shop had closed down…so I kept it ‘just in case’ and I’ve since had a couple of occasions to wear it. I even do the ‘real’ black tie rather than a made up one, because I like to think it looks really cool to untie it and let it hang around your neck when the evening starts to relax (as they nearly always do). The poor sods with Velcro-fastened versions have to keep them on all evening. HAHAHAHhahahahah!
Dinner was astonishing. Wine had been chosen to compliment each of the seven courses, and even things I generally avoid, like braised oxtail, were served up looking so beautiful and tasting unbelievably good that I came away wondering why I had thought I didn’t like them!
After the meal, Raymond Blanc himself got up to say a few words, and to bring in his kitchen team to be introduced.
After the words came the music. An Irish band had been shipped in from somewhere, and proceeded to play a great mix of fiddly-diddly and danceable music. Mrs Sleevie; a dance-floor monster at every possible occasion, was among the first up, and collared le patron; M. Blanc for an early sprint round the floor.
I loosened my tie, and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt (laughing gently at the stuck-up, opinionated plonker at the next table who had spent the whole evening making a fool of himself…he had the Velcro version) and settled down for a long night.
If I can be arsed, I’ll write about the cookery school in another op. This one is getting unmanageably long! Let it suffice to say, if I had more money, and a little more free time, I’d book myself into every course Le Manoir offers…and I’d try to stay there for a couple of nights every month…oh sod it! If I had the money, I’d probably just move in there!
So, if you want to treat yourself or your loved one (or your spouse for that matter) really, really well. Give some consideration to one of the best restaurants, and one of the best hotels, in Britain, if not the world!
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