Simpson's & the Painted Hall

My grandfather loves taking me out to the West End and treating me to dinner at expensive restaurants. It's cool having a grandfather like that! Anna doesn't appreciate on-ceremony in restaurants but I love it, so you can imagine my absolute delight when I'm taken from Liverpool Street station by black cab and stop directly outside Simpson's on The Strand.

Simpson's is located a couple of doors down from The Savoy in the heart of theatreland and is incredibly upmarket. It is also incredibly old-fashioned and women weren't allowed in the upstairs bar area until about ten or twelve years ago. Luckily I dressed up a bit but I had to wear trainers because we always end up walking loads! Surprisingly I'm allowed inside and we relax upstairs in the soft leather armchairs. A waiter serves us drinks and I observe that the other occupants of the bar are older men acting as they would in the old-style gentlemen's clubs - a lot of guffawing, slaps on the back, and phrases such as "Hel-loo old boy!" and "How are you, old chap?" surfacing above the general hubbub of conversation. I swear, if someone had said something like, "Ooh, what ho!" I would have doubled up laughing. It was like being in the 1930's! Photos adorn the walls, some of them signed, including a barely recognisable Charlie Chaplin, complete with wavy blonde hair and smiling in a shy manner.

The restaurant is situated on the ground floor and the waiter insisted on carrying my unfinished drink for me on a tray.
"Why can't I carry my drink down the stairs?" I whisper to my grandfather.
He looks shocked and stutters, "You can't carry your drink when there are waiters being paid to do it for you!"
Oh. Right. Silly me.

We are led to our table and the maitre d' pulls my chair out for me and then whacked my heels with the chair as he tried to push it back under me so I could be seated. He apologised profusely and I just smiled, saying it wasn't his fault my legs barely fit underneath the table. I wedge them underneath the low-set table and allow him to fuss over the table placements and place my napkin for me. He then hands me a menu and, oh my god, I couldn't see anything that I would feel okay about eating! Fallowed deer, casseroled pheasant, quails eggs... I was just bewildered at what I was being offered. I unbravely go for the 'London traditional soup' (which is pea and ham) followed by roast lamb. The soup is probably the best soup I've had for a long time. Empty hot plates are placed on the table and the roast lamb is wheeled out onto the restaurant floor and carved in front of me... I am only slightly horrified. The meat was slightly pink but, oh my god, was it good stuff! Lamb gets greasy so easily but this was absolutely spot on. It was seriously good food. Dessert was just as good - lemon sorbet, brandy snaps, and fresh strawberries and blueberries. Coffee was served by a very good-looking waiter who kept looking at me strangely. I guess he thought my grandfather was some sort of sugar daddy...

After lunch we headed to Greenwich so I could see the Painted Hall, which is situated across the road from the Maritime Museum. The hall was so beautiful, like what the Sistine Chapel must look like. The ceiling is just one enormous Renaissance painting and to save neck strain, there are mirrors on what I can only describe as tea trollies, so you can look down and see the ceiling reflected in the mirror. I took a few photographs but it was so gloomy outside that the inside was lit poorly so they might not come out properly. But it was a wonderful feast for the eyes. I can't believe I didn't go sooner! A definite must for the tourist who thinks they've seen everything.