There used to be a café on Old Compton Street in Soho, London, called Patisserie Valerie. Its location, opposite the 2is coffee bar, where British rock and roll first materialized and a few streets away from the row of studios where the music for the British Invasion was recorded, made it a place of pilgrimage for me. I arrived in London in 1976, and as soon as I'd mastered the Tube, I visited Soho and went to bask in the remaining vibes.
Everyone in Patisserie Valerie appeared almost magically hip. Everyone inside radiated cool. On my third or maybe fourth visit, I ordered a coffee and a millefeuille, chose a table, and sat down.
The tables were communal. In England, at least back then, no one ushered you to a private table. You selected your own. The cafe was empty, and I sat alone with my thoughts and thousand layered, flaky pastry filled with crème anglaise.
As I looked out of the window, someone must have decided to share my table. I don’t remember seeing him sit down. The first he impinged upon me was when he stood up abruptly and declared in a high, feminine voice, “Really! Some people do NOT know how to eat!”
I watched him go, chewing my mouthful of flakes. After some time it dawned on me that he’d been watching me eat the difficult confection and I had somehow failed to live up to his standard of decorum. He must have been disappointed at my lack of contrition.
Somewhat later I read of a millionaires/movers-and-shakers party where the men sat down to a meal but the women hired to decorate the party were only allowed to eat a banana, “The only food that can be eaten delicately.”
I should have stuck to bananas.
