Thursday night we had Indian take away.

We sat in the restaurant opposite Olympic Studios nursing drinks as the chef
prepared our meal.  And then we got into Harry’s BMW and retreated to his
domicile.  Just shy of midnight we broke out the containers and feasted.  It was
just a local joint, but it was better than anything you ever get in L.A.

And then Harry showed me his house.  It’s the kind of modern structure you
find in California.  All concrete and glass.  It’s contrary to your preconceived
image of dark and dank England.  We went out into the garden, the sky was
full of stars.  At this late hour it felt like college, owning the world when its
old inhabitants had relinquished it, having gone to bed.

Then we sat down in Harry’s living room.  And continued our conversation. 
About life, love and the music business.  Harry couldn’t stop talking about the
restaurant we were going to the following night.  Just around the corner in
Barnes.

Seemed kind of odd to me.  It was almost as if Harry was a partner.  The way
he waxed rhapsodic.  With a gleam in his eye like you’ve got when you’re
speaking of the show of the decade.  I rode with it.  Listening to how it was his
hangout.  How he’d been going for nearly fifteen years.  How he even went to
the owner’s sister place on Lake Como.  The more he spoke it seemed like a cult
rather than a restaurant.  It obviously meant that much to him.  I doubted it
would mean that much to me.

The following morning, after going to bed close to four, Harry dropped me off
at the train station.  For my trip to Brighton.

There was no ticket counter.  I was getting anxious.  I’d get on the train
and the conductor wouldn’t take a credit card.  I’d be kicked off in some
godforsaken suburb without a cell phone, unable to contact anybody I knew.

But Harry assured me it would be all right.  To just tell the story.  How I
couldn’t pay where I started.  I kept imploring him, this wasn’t going to WORK!

There was no conductor on the train.  When I switched at the Clapham Bridge
station I avoided the conductors, fearful of being busted, even though I wanted
to ask where the bathroom was.

And when I got to Brighton there were these electronic turnstiles.  Within
which you inserted your ticket.  For exit.  I was on the wrong side without a
ducat.  Up shit’s creek without a paddle.  Finally I saw an information booth on
my side of the border.  I strode up and laid out my story to this gentleman
who couldn’t seem to be bothered.  But after telling my tale, he asked whether
I wanted a "return" (that’s round-trip for those not Anglophiles) and said it
was fifteen pounds from Barnes Bridge, where I’d begun.  I wondered…  Could
I have told him I’d started just up the road, in Croydon, would it have made
any difference?

I was surprised by Brighton.  I expected the train to stop by the water.  To
be confronted by a quaint seaside resort.  But my vessel dead-ended in a city.
Alison and I had to walk a mile to the water.  Which was properly
forbidding.  You wouldn’t think of swimming in it.  And, as per legend, the beach was all rocks.  You wouldn’t want to go barefoot.  And, after lunch at a fish place
we went out on the pier.  With Alison pointing out all the "Quadrophenia"
landmarks.

After touring the Pavilion, King George’s palace, I hopped on the train for
my ride back to Barnes Bridge.  Where Harry was waiting.  I felt taken care of.
And it felt good.

Our reservation wasn’t until nine.  Since Harry wanted to pack for Tobago
first.  But while I did my back exercises, Harry answered e-mail.  And by the
time Serena arrived, the time of our assignation had passed.  After she opted out
of dinner, we went to Richard’s house to drop off birthday cards and then on
to Riva.

Like Brighton, Riva didn’t fit my mental image.  It was more New York than
L.A.  It wasn’t glitzy, it wasn’t even polished.  I’d say it was COMFORTABLE! 
And I’m not trained to get a good meal in a comfort zone.  I expect to be
DAZZLED!

We strode to the back of the restaurant.  Harry said it would be no problem
that we missed our reservation by almost an hour.  Andrea would take care of us.

We were seated at a table by the kitchen.  Not up front where you can be seen
upon entrance, but close to the hearth.

And we immediately got into a conversation with Stuart.  Sitting next to us
with his girlfriend.  It seemed strange that Harry actually KNEW a fellow
diner, one not in the music business.  But it turned out they’d spent many late
evenings there together.

And then this tall drink of water came over and asked if we wanted to see a
menu.  Harry looked at me.  And asked if it was all right if we just let Andrea
pick the dishes.  After nodding my assent, the server disappeared, and we sat
back and continued the previous night’s conversation.  Trying to figure out
the game of love.

And then came a CONCOCTION!  A home made drippy cheese resembling fondue. 
Only this "fondue" had truffles on top.  And was surrounded by home made FRITOS!
Oh, at first I was stunned.  That they’d be serving FRITOS in a place like
this.  But sensing my surprise Harry told me they were made from scratch.

Imagine sitting at your dining room table.  On a cold winter night.  Dipping
warm Fritos in an exquisite dip exceeding any chip sauce you’ve ever
experienced.  Put a smile on my face.  Made me feel rooted.  Like everything in the
world was all right.

And then came the mozzarella.

What can I tell you.  This mozzarella defined the art.  Truly.  The exterior
was soft.  The interior more firm.  This was the gold standard.  I was
laughing as I acknowledged that this was the best I’d ever had.  And when I thought the waitress was removing the remnants it turned out I was wrong.  She came to complain.  That we were leaving thirty five pounds worth of truffles on the
plate.  That we had to eat them up.

And then came the cod.  Encased in a light cheese.  Everything was exotic. 
Everything was top-notch.

And it was while savoring these appetizers that our waitress told us a story.
She was exasperated.  At the men sitting at the table up front.  They’d
asked her how long she’d worked there.  And after stating fourteen years one of
the attendees uttered "Can’t you find something BETTER?"  It was this sharing of
a confidence that intrigued me.  This wasn’t an automaton.  She was a real
person.  Opening up to us.  Well, Harry.  I was along for the ride.  But when
she came back next I couldn’t hold back.  She’d told the guy she had a major in
literature, that she LIKED working at Riva.  Where did she get said degree?

Well, she did one year in the U.K. and five years in Poland.  THAT explained
it.  I couldn’t quite figure out the accent.

And after devouring what had been served Andrea, the maitre d’, the owner of
the establishment, he came over for a consultation.  He wanted to know.  Did
we want some beef?  Did we want some pig?

It was too late to be eating steak.  And since they were referring to it as
pig not pork, I wasn’t excited.  I wanted to steer Harry away from the barnyard
animal.  I asked Andrea to tell me about the fish.  After hearing there were
scallops, I was sold.  I love the rubbery mollusks.  But Harry wasn’t
convinced.  So Andrea gave us more information.  They were DIVER’S scallops.  Fresh today.  Harry assented.  I agreed to a deal.  We’d get the scallops AND the pig.

I was worried the scallops would be boring.  The usual plump half dollar
gelatinous bivalves.  But these scallops…  They had texture!  They were almost
stringy.  They had a full-bodied taste.  They were 11’s on a scale of 10.

But they were no match for the pig.  The pig DEFINED succulent.  There were
pre-cut strips.  And then more meat on a bone.  It was so tender it melted in
your mouth.  And it was accompanied by a bowl of radicchio and apples.  A
savory counterbalance to the sweetness of the pig.

But the piece de resistance…  It was the dessert.  A special Riva
concoction.  Fried ice cream.  Coffee ice cream.  With nuts.  All bathed in a shower of
VINEGAR!  I was game, but I wasn’t a believer.  Until the balance of sweet
and sour hit my taste buds.  EUREKA!

This was the best meal I’ve had in fifteen years.  It’s not that I remember
one as good, it’s just that I’m not sure I can remember before that.  Every
course was either a 10 or 11.  I’ve been to the finest restaurants in L.A., I’ve
never had anything like this.

Just before dessert Stuart got up to leave.  Harry asked him how business was.

Stuart put out his hand.  And lifted it up and up.

Harry was confused.  He asked Stuart to explain.

With oil at $65 a barrel, his business providing steel to the energy industry
was going BONKERS!  I pondered this.  This was the kind of guy you read about
in "Esquire".  A man dressed in denim who had more money than most
neighborhoods.  Talking about playing golf in China.  Meeting with ministers there.

And then Harry had Andrea bring over the pictures.  Of the place on Lake Como.

It’s open eight months a year.  There are fewer than ten rooms.  It’s not for
the general public, it’s for Andrea’s customers, his friends.  Sure, he’s got
to charge them, but that’s not what it’s about.  Actually, it was just about
then that he slipped Harry the bill.  Which must have been tough for him. 
Switching from friend mode to business.  Then again, not TOO hard.

And by this time it was past midnight.  The place was empty.  We started to
talk celebrities.

Harry had told me of the night he’d brought Sheryl Crow and Eric Clapton. 
His stock had gone up in Andrea’s book that evening.

And unlike L.A. restaurateurs, Andrea started boasting about his clientele. 
The night Willie Nelson arrived.  He ended up going to the hospital for some
reason that evening, after all, he’s an elderly gentleman, but he was back the
very next day.

And Robert DeNiro…  He was partaking of everything.  Andrea kept serving
and Robert kept eating.

And Madonna and Guy Ritchie.

And Spike from down the block.

It was like L.A. on steroids.

And when we’d covered the pages of the gossip rags we switched to love. 
Andrea was giving us his philosophy.  Instructing us how to behave.

And this is when Sandra started listening in.  The other server.  Along with
the Polish woman who had disappeared.

Sandra was intently paying attention.  And then she uttered advice.

So, I asked her.  Was SHE married.

She said yes.  But that she didn’t live with her husband.

I figured it was one of those L.A. green card type things.  She kept smiling,
like she had a child’s secret.

But then Harry asked what it would take for her husband to get back into the
country.

The story had taken an unforeseen turn.

Being that we were the only ones there, I probed for more information.  The
government had kicked him out.  But it didn’t sound bad until I found out
Sandra was from BOSNIA!  Not only was her husband back there, but their child too.  Living with her mother.

It was so sad.  So unlike L.A.  There’d been a war.  Had she escaped it?  If
she wouldn’t go back it still couldn’t be too good.  These are issues that
don’t face us here.  We’ve got it good.  We lament we can’t afford a Mercedes. 
We’re insulated from life and death issues.

And then Andrea started putting on his tie.  Which flummoxed me.  Since it
was approaching one.

And then he got antsy.  He wanted to wrap it up.

I huddled with Harry.  What was this about?

Andrea had to hit the CLUBS!

The bars close at two in L.A.  It didn’t even cross my mind.

And then we were all out on the sidewalk.  Andrea strode off to his car. 
Sandra seemed to be waiting for a bus.  And we got back into Harry’s BMW.  Where
he asked me personal questions and I answered them.  Because, really, you just
want someone to listen to you.  Tell them your innermost feelings.