Art for Art's Sake - Part 2

Up and out, to breakfast at a nearby Pret a Manger, where we occupied window seats overlooking Hatchards.  

Then a leisurely walk through St James, down to and across The Mall and into St James's Park. Inevitably when I walk through this park my mind goes back to a day in August / September 1959:

It was the end of a hard day of sight-seeing (including waving to Harold MacMillan and Dwight Eisenhower as they were driven down The Mall after visiting HMQ) and my sister Mary wanted to ensure that I had not lost her pocket money, which she had entrusted to my care earlier in the day.

Today, however, we had places to be and pictures to look at, so we pressed on - pausing only to admire this little chap perched high above us:

A quick cab ride completed the last part of the journey (we were conserving energy for what we knew would be a long day) and arrived at our destination:

The Hockney exhibition lived up to its promise, and the complimentary hot drinks included in the combined ticket price (along with some exorbitantly expensive food) fueled us for the Nash exhibition, which was equally enjoyable.

Out onto Millbank, and of course we had to check out the MI6 headquarters on the opposite bank of the Thames.

From here a leisurely stroll along the Thames to the Houses of Parliament and up Whitehall took us to Trafalgar Square, where another Pret a Manger provided another quick snack.

Across the Square, up to Charing Cross Road, where we called into Cass Art and tried to resist temptation. I find it quite amazing that someone as lacking in artistic ability as I should be so tempted by pens, pencils, notebooks etc - I suppose it must be the frustrated writer in me, as I have no inclination at all to draw or paint.  Past the Garrick Theatre (where, many, many moons ago, Mum took Mary and me to see Brian Rix farces), across the road and through Cecil Court, which still excites, but perhaps not as much as it did 20 and more years ago.

Along St Martins Lane and on into Seven Dials and Covent Garden, window shopping mainly, but also checking out the pens and stationery in Muji and in the London Graphic Centre (do you sense a theme developing?). On and through the Covent Garden central square, where the vocal attempts by the jugglers and acrobats to get the crowd to part with their money were as well rehearsed as the more physical aspects of their acts.

By now it was mid-afternoon, and feet were beginning to complain and stomachs to rumble. Where to go for our 'main' meal of the day?

In 1965 Joe Allen opened his eponymous restaurant in New York. Twelve years later its sister restaurant opened on Exeter Street in Covent Garden, and has been there ever since. It was forty years since I first read a review of the UK Joe Allen's (probably in Time Out) and vowed to go - and in all that time I never had.  Why?  Largely because in the early days it was always touted as a hangout for extremely cool and trendy people, which seemed to preclude me. Years passed, and I never quite got around to overcoming my innate diffidence - until today.

Compared to its early years, when Joe Allen's announced its presence on the street by means of a small polished brass name plate and nothing else, these days it positively shouts a welcome by means of a red awning and matching overhead sign. We took the stairs down, asked the maitresse d' for a table and were shown through into the dining room, with its famous bare brick walls and tables elegantly laid with crisp white linens.

What to choose?  Amanda opted for salmon with mashed potatoes and spinach. I knew that one of the worst kept secrets about Joe Allen's is that you can ask for a (no longer secret at all) secret "not on the menu" burger - which I did with an air of aplomb that suggested this was a daily occurrence.  "Bacon and cheese?" asked the waitress; I nodded insouciantly.

So how was the whole experience?  After forty years of anticipation I confess that I was more than a little concerned that my first visit would call to mind the old joke about the groupie who set out to sleep with every major rock star in the world. After each tryst she would opine, "He was good, but he was no Mick Jagger". Finally, she got to spend the night with the great man; when asked about the experience the next morning she replied, "He was good, but he was no Mick Jagger...".  

I need not have worried. While fireworks did not explode, nor the earth move, during our first time in Joe Allen's, it was a memorably enjoyable visit, and one that will be repeated when time and funds allow. (Of course, with impeccable timing and luck, three days after returning from London I read that the building currently occupied by the restaurant is in the process of being purchased for the creation of a new boutique hotel to be added to Robert de Niro's portfolio, and that JA's will be relocating. Looks like I got my first visit in just in time...)

Out to push through the thickening crowds of workers piling into shops, pubs and bars at the end of the working week.  We worked our way back up to Charing Cross Road and Foyles, where temptations were resisted, and thence on to Piccadilly and back to The Cavendish, where we collapsed.