Mad Dogs & Englishmen June Newsletter
I was recently taken to dinner at Predalina, one of our partner's other restaurants. It was a sublime experience. The food was extraordinary. Without sounding too pretentious, Picasso came to mind. I am not crazy about all Picasso's works of art, but I do admire the fact he broke all the rules, as it seemed to me did the Chef at Predalina.
I don’t get out much. When you own a part of a restaurant, that’s where your loyalty lies. People except to see you lounging at the bar in your own establishment, seemingly without a care in the world. Having a restaurant is a bit like having a mistress. When you’re not at home, they expect you to be with them.
Like Predalina, Picasso is associated with all things Mediterranean. There are all those black and white pics of the old boy, impressively bare chested, emerging from the waves, his arm around one of his mistresses. I have the distinct honor of being pictured in the mural above the bar at Mad Dogs, also bare chested, but without my arms around anything sexier than a ship’s wheel. Albert, the architect, could have portrayed me with my arm around Lauren Bacall, also featured in the mural, but rightly decided to err on the side of decorum. After all, anyone can whistle. You just put your lips together and blow.
Unlike Pablo, I have never had a mistress as such. I have been married thrice. Relatively short though my marriages were, I can honestly report I behaved impeccably, at least in the area of fidelity.
My first wife was an Alitalia air hostess. I met her serving luke- warm pasta on a flight to New Zealand not long after my twenty first birthday. It was a shot-green wedding as she was keen to remain in Australia where I had taken up residence. Her propensity towards a Mediterranean temper, however, dictated that the union would be short lived. I haven’t been in touch with her in over fifty years, but she corresponded with my mother for decades. Mothers are funny like that. They don’t necessarily stay in touch with longstanding girlfriends but almost always with their daughters-in-law. It’s something to do with etiquette.
The English are less renowned for their mistresses than say the French or the Italians where its considered de rigueur, an accepted part of marriage. Often, the wife is just pleased to get the husband off her back for a few hours. Americans don’t seem to have much of a tradition of mistresses, at least since the architect Stanford White was shot by his.
I had an old actor friend years ago who, on his way to enlist during the war, glanced up at one of those massive windows just as you shunt out of Paddington station, only to witness his father eating lunch with a completely different family. With typical English restraint, he chose never to confront his father over this second family nor showed any curiosity about his half brothers or sisters.
“You never wanted to know more?” I asked him.
“Not really,” he replied “And, besides, it would have upset Mother.”
Picasso, by contrast, appeared to enjoy the drama of his mistresses’ infighting. He was also notorious for not wanting to pay restaurant bills, leaving instead a hastily drawn daub on a napkin, assuring the waiter it was worth more than the bill.
Money and art can’t buy you love but, occasionally, they can buy you a great meal. Try Predalina, if you haven’t already. You won’t be disappointed.
