Lobster and shrimp Eggs Benedict on a Sunday morning in Paris.
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It was 80's London in my pre-Paris days, and Michael Alexander, who I've written about before on
this blog, had opened a restaurant, The Chelsea Wharf, to much local fanfare in the media and otherwise, right on Chelsea Harbour.
In no time at all it became the talk of the town. In the cuisine was enfant terrible now celeb chef Marco Pierre White, the sole person, it's been said, who "made Gordon Ramsay cry in the kitchen." With regulars such as George Michael and Boy George streaming in, one would think its success was guaranteed, but it wasn’t.
Sadly, it was short-lived. Lax management let a party
atmosphere take over and, as Michael would mention more than once over the years with a sigh, he was, after all, a writer, not a restaurateur.
Sunday mornings saw a gathering of "friends and allies" - those dearest and nearest to
him - occupy a very long table for breakfast. As Billy Churchill swayed away on piano and a soft light seeped in through gothic windows, we'd regale in bad jokes and good champagne.
Just across the Thames was Saint Mary's Church and almost everyone would order Bloody Marys and the house Eggs Benedict - or rather, as it appeared on the menu, "Eggs Benedict Arnold," so named for the notorious traitor of the American Revolution buried there.
The first - and last - time I pointed this out I was swiftly berated.
“Traitor? From our side of things, Benedict Arnold was a hero!” - BPJ
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