Balthazar is a golden cave in Covent Garden, in the old Theatre (Luvvie) Museum, home to dead pantomime horses and Christopher Biggins’s regrets. It is a copy of a New York restaurant, which was itself a copy of a Parisian brasserie, and it is the first big London opening of the year. This means diary stories and reviews and profiles of the co-owner (with Richard Caring), Keith McNally, the most ludicrous of which was in the FT, and was an interview with his house, which is in Notting Hill. It wasn’t quite as ridiculous as:
F.T. What are you proudest of, Keith McNally’s House?
Keith McNally’s house Guttering.
But it could have been. This is the age of the celebrity restaurateur, as distinct from the celebrity chef, and we must kiss the hem. It could be worse. It could be an interview with Richard Caring’s hairbrush.
F.T. What are you proudest of, -Richard Caring’s Hairbrush?
Richard Caring’s hairbrush Fuck you, I’m calling my lawyer.
Richard Caring owns The Ivy and Le Caprice. He once made his secretary ring me after I wrote that his face was made of diamonds. So I should clarify. Richard Caring’s face is not made of diamonds, but human skin.
Inside, the thing the Spectator reader most fears — a buzz. Balthazar is huge and gold as coin, filled with red banquettes and aged mirrors, and everywhere staff bounce in black or white, like purity and malevolence with bread. I will not linger on the obvious reference, which is, of course — Café Rouge! It’s just like a big Café Rouge! But Café Rouge as a frame of reference is over. It died with Colbert, in Chelsea; it is too unfashionable even to be a slur. But I like typing the words Café Rouge.
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