Mona's Meals | Sunday, 25 October 2009

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A winning couple

In the space of three weeks, and for completely different reasons, two people have asked me to be more like Michael Winner. That is a little worrying.

First off the bat is the fact that Michael Winner, who has always written in the British Sunday Times that ‘people who think [he’s] a restaurant critic are idiots’ is a slightly corpulent man who is looking his seventh decade in the eyes, has fine white hair and a sad affliction for floppy shirts worn over his chinos. I’m half his age and my shoe collection is baffling in quantity and quality, even to me.

Winner also happens to be a millionaire who, by his own admission, owes the banks millions. Sadly, I am nowhere being one myself, have a hefty mortgage, and my mother, unlike his, did not dump all her money (again, millions) down the casino drains.

Winner has his photo in the paper each week. I don’t publish mine; unlike him, I do not want to be recognised and made a fuss of. Whereas he, a film director, travels first class and in private jets, lambasts British Airways and lauds Virgin’s First Class cabins, I understand that the only way I will ever get to travel in a private jet is by marrying a Russian billionaire. That doesn’t look very likely at all.

Winner is surrounded by famous people and counts stars such as Roger Moore amongst his besties. John Cleese, another close friend, was the star of his column for many weeks last year as Winner was ripping Cleese’s newly-ex-wife to shreds. I could never do that. And even if some of my very good friends do happen to be famous, or annulled (we don’t have divorce), they are nowhere near international A-list status and I would not even dream of outing their personal lives on a Sunday paper.

He has been ‘engaged’ to many women many times – every ring that he slips over a new third finger is featured in OK! magazine. Weeks later, his relationship breaks up. I’m sure that Marie Benoit would put me and my bathroom in her magazine if I asked her but I love The Writer too much to risk ‘the curse’.

If Michael Winner went to the Pegasus Brasserie at the Phoenicia, he would describe the menu as tiny. The starters on the day we went were a little sparse seeing as there were only a pasta and a soup dish on the specials board and none on the menu. On the other hand, I’m sure he’d appreciate the lack of corporate setup: when we asked for the fish cake to be switched to a ‘starter’ portion by taking away the sides, they accommodated without any problems whatsoever.
For him, the soup, an aubergine and garlic, would probably have been a double historic. I’m trying to control myself from describing it as earthy and creamy but of course, as you have noticed, I have not managed. He would most definitely hate the décor, which looks like an unfinished project.
How would Michael have described the shepherd’s pie? Who knows? I hated the fact that it was deconstructed since nothing on the menu told me that it would come topped with sautéed and roasted potatoes. He would never have asked for it to be packed, along with the wonderful greens, in a doggy bag whereby he would then eat it, the following day, in the work canteen and where it tasted even better than the first time ‘round.

Being a man of the world, he would probably have appreciated the pork cailettes, meat dumplings with a lovely tomato and chilli sauce. He would have torn the bread to execute a scarpetta. When the starters took a long time to arrive, he would have waved his napkin around for attention, even though this napkin was not made of fabric but of horrid cellulose.
He would have dissed the raspberry panna cotta, which was as full of gelatin as one of his starlet friends’ cheeks and as lacking in taste. He might have enjoyed The Writer’s crème caramel though.
Michael Winner does not bother with a star rating: in his world, food is either ‘good’ ‘triple historic’ or ‘disgusting’. To me, the Pegasus is a project in the making, crying out for attention, management and a little bit of love.

Michael would be dictating this to his assistant and she would be typing away like a little beaver. I’m writing this on an Air Malta flight, sitting in (the shame!) economy, with the plebs, surrounded by the kind of British biddies he cannot stomach.

There is one thing that Michael does which I really love. He writes very little. I hope you can forgive me for doing the same thing today. After all, we have to have something in common.

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