We have returned, considerably poorer, from a little shopping trip to the Great Wen.
I use 'we' in its plural, rather than its monarchical sense, although Her Majesty figures briefly in this essay on comestibles, see later.
My husband and I (this is still me talking) went to London for the weekend. The plan of action was drive to town at a sedate number of miles per hour, check into our hotel, then rendezvous with our mate young Honeyball of the Remove - who happens to know the Personal Shopping Manager of Selfridges Food Hall - and get in amongst the salami lickety-split.
We did a lot of sitting around on the M4, as it turned out and only in part sedately, on account of the motorway having been closed because of an accident. You know you're in for a bit of a wait when street parties are got up in the fast lane and people are swapping names, addresses and possibly partners, in between occasional movings forward of vehicles and the putting of the right children back in the right safety seats. It was only missing flags for that essentially British quality and I warmly urge car manufacturers to stuff their airbags with emergency bunting for these occasions.
We also enjoyed a polite, but vicious, exchange of opinion with the hotel receptionist, who opined that our showing her the receipt for the pre-paid bedroom didn't mean we'd actually paid, since the word 'paid' didn't appear on her computer screen. Don't mess with the previously vexed, is my advice. Already travel-stained and late we were in no mood to bandy words with someone whose first language was Numbskull and we gave her the full benefit of our twin effulgences; something we try to avoid because of the unpleasant staining it induces.
So it was something of an achievement for Selfridges that, having arrived in a less good mood than we had planned, our spirits were lifted inside thirty seconds.
What a place. It has got everything and it has got it in astonishing variety and exemplary freshness. It has also, thoughtfully, had Japan removed wholesale from its previous position halfway across the world - so inconvenient for Londoners - and plonked it in the middle of Oxford Street, so that round-eyes may experience such delicacies as scorpion-enriched lollipops and cheese-flavoured worm crisps without the tiredness brought on by jet-lag.
Japan Month – so sorry, it finished at the end of May – was all over the store. Tiny, impeccable people dressed in pink exhorted one to clamber up the escalators in search of the latest in oriental modes, whilst the sounds of Japanese rock music could be heard all over the shop.
Back in the food hall, where I could happily go to die, the Japanese motif was in evidence almost everywhere. Apart from that section apparently devoted to Bugs in Sweets, there was Japanese beef – the hand-massaged variety that wouldn't get foot and mouth but more likely a wash and blow-dry; there was a Sashimi expert who was wielding his knife in a manner that verged on the poetic and there was a quite astonishingly beautiful young girl selling exotic jellies in pale shades of jade and apricot.
However, our brief was to walk around the entire food hall with André and try whatever we wanted and that's exactly what we did. We tried truffled salami that was so delicious it was positively rude; we tried Prosciutto de Campegna that was moist, succulent and subtly-flavoured; we were unable to resist the new season's wild smoked salmon and I am here to tell you that the sashimi-slicer is not alone in his cutlass-waving skills. The Prosciutto is sold on the bone, held in an elaborate device that would make Torquemada weep with jealousy and is sliced correctly, paper-thin, by a smiling assistant who talks to you while he slices. The smoked salmon, similarly, is hand-carved by a girl who probably possesses many other talents but who could get by in life with her knife skills alone. It was a treat to watch her work. It was also very expensive because we were enjoying the spectacle so much we kept on suggesting that she give us one more slice.
We wandered around the whole of the food hall and it took some considerable time.
We fetched up, as I knew we must, at the chocolate department. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Some of the grandest and best names in the word of calories ply their wicked, lascivious wares here and I beseech you all to make friends with someone of consequence at Selfridges so that you, too, may be offered a Prestat violet cream, to be quietly enjoyed whilst ambulating inexorably towards the raspberry truffles available from the Valrhona counter. These are prescription chocolates and should be offered only to those who have passed an examination in Truffle Appreciation. The downside to this is that you will accidentally buy a kilo of their fine, dark
chocolate and discover yourself handing over £16.50 with barely a murmur.
After two hours of formation swallowing in this hallowed place, I remembered why we had come to Selfridges. The thing I actually wanted to buy was a tin of goose fat; the last of the Christmas remains having finally been used up.
André looked at me with genuine emotion. He was dreadfully sorry, he said, but he knew he had none to offer me because he had sent every vestige of stock to Somewhere Very Important, No Names, No Pack drill and indeed no passport.
The respectful quality of Selfridge's upper echelons are no match for Valerie when it comes to second-guessing personae. I may have to roast tonight's potatoes in beef dripping, but I shall be blaming Her Majesty the Queen for the shortfall, no less.
Which is quite smart.
