I had just spent 10 days at Kate Middleton’s father’s old school living the life of a 10-year-old prep pupil. Up at 6 a.m., sitting down to a healthy breakfast at 7, school by 8, home by 5, dinner at 6, in bed by 8 p.m. I’d never been so wholesome in my life, not even when I was 10.
My Gay Friend reacted as if I’d just gotten out of prison. “We must go out!” he declared, so my first night in London was spent purging my systems of all that goodness.
First we went to a gay bar named G-A-Y. If I were to open a bar called S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T, would that be discrimination? G-A-Y serves San Miguel Beer on tap. I had a glass of wine sitting next to two burly men smooching. Someone’s Saturday night was off to a flying start, and the sun was still out.
Gay Friend insisted that we have pornstar martinis at Balan’s in Soho but all the outdoor tables were taken. We got a table outside the café next door and ordered lattes. When a table became free at Balan’s we took the lattes there and ordered martinis (a terrible combination now that I think about it). A waitress came out of the café and informed us that we could only drink their coffee on their premises. “But we’re right next to your table,” Gay Friend pointed out, for we were literally a foot away from the café’s furniture.
“You can’t take our cups next door,” the surly waitress said. “Fine,” Gay Friend replied. He transferred to one of the cafe’s tables. “I am now drinking your coffee at your table, are you happy?” She went away. This would never have happened in Manila. We complain a lot, but we have better service at home — too much service, even.
A neighborhood character dressed like a Broadway star of the 1920s came over and showed us his watch, which he claimed was a gift from the king of something. We entertained ourselves by looking at the patrons of the bar across the street and predicting how their evening would go. Then we went to Gordon’s.
Gordon’s is the oldest wine bar in London (est. 1890). It’s a cave, literally: stone walls, sawdust on the floor, and a ceiling so low you need to crouch. It was one of the few occasions I was happy to be short. We were finishing a bottle of pinot when someone remembered that it was the night of the Eurovision Song Contest finals. Eurovision is one of the camp highlights of the year, when people gather round their televisions to judge the representatives of the European nations on their songwriting, vocal ability, and most importantly, their costume and presentation.
So we left the cozy warmth of the wine cave and went out into the cold to find a place that was airing the Eurovision finals. First our guide led us to a bar he fondly referred to as the “Chinese take-away.” Amazingly they were not doing Eurovision night. The next two bars were not screening Eurovision either; how was that possible?
Finally we went to a retro ’80s music bar and Eurovision was on downstairs — but the tickets were sold out. We had no choice but to sit upstairs and order Pimms. Around this time I realized that we had been ingesting alcohol without eating, but it was too late because we were already under the influence. Saturday night with the gay people — it was just like home, except that we were in London.
The next day I was having brunch with Straight Friend. To me brunch means Eggs Benedict, mimosas and the Sunday papers, plus pancakes if I’m really hungry. Gay Friend rattled off a list of places that serve brunch, including the boutique hotel in Knightsbridge where he had his wedding brunch. (They’ve gotten a divorce since then, but the wedding brunch was fabulous.)
“This is a heterosexual male,” I told Gay Friend. “Most likely we will eat at the first restaurant he sees. Then he will order sausages and potatoes, pronounce everything terrible and say the food is better at home.” I am psychic. Still I clung to the hope that my straight friend would have a smidgen of gayness in his soul and pick a nice place for brunch.
“What are we wearing?” I asked when Straight Friend called. I was hoping to go somewhere that required a Princess Beatrice hat.
“What do you mean?” said Straight Friend.
“What’s the attire?”
“Uh, T-shirt and jeans?” he replied like a contestant in a game show unsure of the price of the kitchen showcase.
He had overstated the level of formality — he turned up in a polo shirt with the name of a pub on it, board shorts and flip-flops. “The weather’s great,” he announced, “It’s getting really warm.” I am from the tropics so I buttoned up my coat.
Gay Friend asked where we were heading and told us which train to take. Straight Friend waved off the directions with a look of “I am a straight guy, I know where I am going, I shall navigate by the North Star.”
We got lost.