For a woman of her advanced age, my mum Trudi is sharp as a tack, still mobile (if a little less nimble), and she likes a nice meal, albeit with a slightly reduced appetite.
So, she said, when venues for her forthcoming celebrations were mooted, the full roast would be probably too much, but how about brunch? Or somewhere she could have a couple of starters? It was her 95th, after all: a proper Sunday feed was on the cards.
After research and a bit of trouble getting anyone to let us have a table for eight, we struck gold with Berners Tavern. A perfect choice – classy, easy to get to for all us north Londoners, very varied menu, and Jason Atherton had just been on Saturday Kitchen. Everyone was happy.
We booked online, added in the comments that it was a big celebration, and again reiterated the nature of the ninety-fifth matriarchal birthday on the phone.
LOCAL ADVERTISING
Fancy lovely room, cosy winter welcome: our first thoughts on arrival. But, from the offset, everything was just a tiny bit off.
Some of us ordered delicious cocktails, some drank beer, and we all had tap water. Nothing seemed to arrive when expected. The pints, in great glass tankards, seemed to overlap each other, so my son waited ages for his, but my brother-in-law’s arrived within seconds, while some didn’t come or maybe they did twice. We had to constantly ask for the water to be refilled.
We thought we wanted wine but after examining the tome of a wine list, the eye-watering prices were making us anxious and indecisive.
By the time the sommelier and his comedy ’tache came over we had decided to forgo the vino. Had the disappointed expert come over twenty minutes earlier, we might have slummed it with a £40 bottle of Alberino, or splashed out on £175 Savennieres. But we had had time to consider our wallets and desires, and see sense.
Instead we ordered a glass of champagne for the birthday princess. My sister hissed at the waiter: “You know it is a special occasion”. He purred yes, of course, and then just plonked the flute of bubbles silently at her setting.
We mostly brunched. Trudi and my daughter had their favourite, crab on toast, which had delicious pickles on it, so tasted of delicious pickles (little crabbiness, mind).
My vegetarian son was given short shrift from a pitiful choice of non-meat and non-fish options. When he asked what he could have as a starter before baked eggs as a main course he was offered avocado on toast with eggs. We pointed out that was all a little eggy, no? So they offered up just avo on toast. Which seemed a bit Hoxton circa 2009 – not to mention unimaginative.
My husband and nephew ordered the Full English. One (delicious) sausage, one disc of black pudding, one egg, one mushroom, one rasher. No promised baked beans. So we prompted, and only then were they brought to table in rather cute silver serving jugs.
Turkish eggs looked like lovely whites on top of some spicy tomato, but the white was in fact an over generous serving of yoghurt, and hidden at the base of the dish, the eggs. Well one egg. So singular: Turkish egg.
By pudding time we had been there for over three hours. Which was good because we were nice and relaxed – but also indicative of poor attention. Some coffee, tea and dessert arrived. But no sign of the promised special cake for Trudi. We asked.
It finally came. Piped across the plate was Happy 65th Birthday. The waitress laughed and said it was because our mum looked so young. But we all know that wasn’t the reason why. They just didn’t care about us enough.
Did we have a nice (sixty-quid-a-head) time? Sure. But was the meal itself, and the service special enough? No. We left feeling warm and fuzzy, not at all drunk, not actually full and a little miffed. Shame on Berners who, with a little effort, could have made it truly delightful.
