11 May 2011
There is a bar, in Menlo Park, they call the British Bankers Club (which is sort of where this Animals riff stops scanning); last time I was there, I was the only Brit, I’m not a banker and it wasn’t really a club.
The Guinea Grill, on the other hand, could be the home of the fabled BBC. The room is wood lined, the staff wear white aprons and the food is solid, boarding school grub. Oh, and almost everyone dinning there was in a pin-stripped blue, grey or blue-grey suit. And male.
Our waiter was what I believe is technically known as a “character”. The character he most resembled physically was Mr Potatohead, but with an Italian accent. He needed a comedy pepper grinder, and his image would be complete.
Starters were fine: asparagus, crayfish crab cocktail and smoked salmon, but the mains, ah; the mains. Steak. One is introduced to the steak at reception. And to the barbecue grill, upon which it will be transformed. Proper bone in rib, seared as requested; a bit of watercress; some chips; some mustard; and peas. Lovely. Or pie: thin, flaky, larded crust; juicy beef; rich unctuous gravy; and a Blackadder style frilly collar.
Comfort food done to the highest standard.