7th April 2001

The dieponyms and proprietors of Da Paolo e Judie have erected a fulgent beacon of architectonic éclat, but inhabit the edifice as poltergeists would a decrepit tenement. Paolo Scarpa, master architect and éminence grise, wove fugitive and apparition-like, in and out of phantom passageways, now and then emerging, like a gopher, from out of (not behind) a wall, an illusionist’s cantrip aided perhaps by the tricky chiaroscuro interior; glassy, limpid panels astride flat black, chestnut and champagne surfaces.

(The washroom, a solipsistic surreal nightmare of infinite recursion. I found myself walled in self-reflexively by four mirrors, where walls were, having a urinal’s-eye-view of myself in the act.)

From the tenebrous pre- or post-prandial vestibule, the darkness rather sinisterly relieved by the single deathly pale orchid in ghostly vase, and a lucent vessel of brown sugar resting on each table (accoutrements for unspeakable occult rituals, atop a sacrificial altar?), we ambulated towards the bar counter, standing amidst a scintillating vacancy, all marbly and nacreous. In the dining room proper, half the surfaces gleam lewdly, their scandalous exposure abetted by too many upturned spotlights welded into the floor; the other half recede in bas-relief, owing to their flat muted hues.

Judie Scarpa (a renascent and vitalized Miss Havisham rising, freshly disinterred, nightly, to attend to guests who are very late for her ruined wedding), a handsome woman of burnished hue festooned with white drapery, hostess and impresario par excellence, a regular Clarissa Dalloway, made her rounds, flitting hither and thither, inquiring after everyone’s dining welfare with such amiable solicitude (unlike most obtrusive waitstaff who loudly demand your approbation every chance they get) that it was quite impossible not to be charmed. However, she had definite ideas about what her guests should eat (or should not eat, as evinced by her arch reaction to Y. having chosen to start with the gratinated mushrooms: “And how did you like that?” He countered with triumphant stoicism: “Very subtle”), going on a bit too long about the elusive appeal (which, presumably, would forever escape us Philistines) of J’s Tagliatelle In Salsa Reale, and giving us to understand that we had ordered badly, through her effusive exaltations of what we didn’t try.

That may possibly have been applicable to W., whose starter of prawns came atop a spectacularly huge hillock of polenta which no-one could reasonably be expected to put away (oh, but W. did, inexplicably). I, however, was not in the least convinced that my choices were in any way second-rate. To start, carpaccio di cappesante e funghi con rucola – a felicitous surf ‘n’ turf, mer et terre pairing of slivery seafaring scallops and their woodsy landlubbing confrères, with a sneaky strawberryish attack (a dash of fraises de bois?) Next, spaghetti alla Polesina, a delicious dalliance in my mouth: prawns, roasted red peppers, a “touch” of cream, white wine and garlic in a perfect meld. Utterly gorgeous. Finally, in spite (or perhaps because) of the none too inspiring recitation of the dessert specials by our lackadaisical waiter (“Today we have a black fig brioche. It’s like a pudding.” Note: J. is rather inimical towards puddings. Or should that be the other way round?), both Y. and I contrarily ordered profiterols al cioccolato. I thought them excellent, with a superior ganache centre, and blissfully free of that raw eggy flouriness which repels me from regular éclairs, but Y. was (unprecedentedly) falling over himself with giggling delight. My cappucino, sipped in the aforementioned sepulchre, was uncommonly good.

What was uncommonly bad was the cramped seating. The conversation at our table was taxing enough without my having to be distracted by the very engaging (and at that distance, loud) discussion going on to my right (I was pleased to find, however, that someone else thinks Marmalade is overrated). And the music veered wildly from string quartet (8pm) to silly technobabble (10pm). Fix that, Mrs Scarpa, and I’ll be sure to return. To try your amazing antipasto.