If you have been sat at the table for 30 minutes and haven't worked out who the sucker is, then the sucker is you... I couldn't help but reflect on this old poker adage while waiting in the restaurant at the Menier Chocolate Factory, that most stylish of theatres close by the foodie Valhalla of Borough Market in the heart of London's Shakespearian Southwark.
Shortly before curtain up on Patrick Marber's poker play, Dealer's Choice (itself set in a London restaurant - will life never cease to impersonate art impersonating life?), my friend was trapped in such murderous traffic that, half an hour after sitting down, I was still the only person at the table. Which at least went some distance towards demystifying the sucker's identity.
There is something ineffably pitiful about the lone diner trying too hard to feign insouciance, of course, but if it must happen, I can't imagine anywhere better for it to do so than here. For one thing, the lighting is pleasingly sepulchral enough to enshroud the solitary saddo in the comforting cloak of anonymity, while the warmth and humour of a memorably good waitress helped dull the humiliation. And for another thing, theatregoers are such chatty, friendly folk, always seemingly ready to be sequestered as emergency friends.
I peered across at the neighbouring table, and gratefully noticed a mirror image - another middle-aged wretch staring forlornly at the entrance. Colluding to end our isolation, we were quickly on such warm terms that we might easily have been mistaken for method actors researching roles in the Chocolate Factory's next production, La Cage Aux Folles.
I poured my new acquaintance a glass from my bottle of Clos De Los Siete, and asked if I might pour another in anticipation of his friend's arrival. "Erm, I don't know if she likes wine," he said.
A one-word question ("Escort?") flitted to mind, but I suppressed it, and we turned our critical attention to the room - a large, square space with a raised section by the bar in the middle; and, on and up against the cream-painted brickwork walls, a collation of sepia movie prints, bookcases, chests laden with crockery and huge globe lamps. The space might easily be adapted for makeshift use as the set for a 1920s drama (albeit, given the photograph of Jodie Foster poised to sing about Fat Sam in Bugsy Malone, one that takes place in prohibition Chicago).
By the time my old friend and my new friend's new friend turned up, we had barely 20 minutes for the two courses that come with the theatre tickets in a bargain Meal Deal, and it was then that the speed and efficiency of both kitchen and service came into their own. At lunchtime and after 8pm, when the shows start, there is a full and enticing modern Brit/ eclectic à la carte menu about which regulars speak very fondly. But the pre-show menu is limited to two choices in each course, and in our case this threw up a classic instance of pot luck.
If my dishes were a pair of nines, my friend felt that he was dealt a three and five off suit. "It's punishment for being so late," he reflected, replacing his spoon in a half-empty bowl (poker players tend not to be "glass half full" types even at the best of times) of autumn mushroom and pearl barley broth, "and so I must take it like a man - but it's giving me nothing at all."
The soup wasn't great, in truth, but in contrast my pork and tarragon terrine with crostini was so rustically delicious, and was accompanied by such a good, spicy fig compote, that I completely forgot my mild phobia of the lumpy texture until my plate had been cleared.
By now people were beginning to shuffle through to the audi-torium (a quite sensational theatrical space, by the way), so the hardness of the Parmesan flakes that came on my friend's butternut squash ravioli with burnt sage butter posed a problem. "I've only got a chemistry O-level," he said, "so I can't work out how long this cheese will take to melt. But if we wait, we'll not be seeing much of Act One." The ravioli wasn't much to his liking, either, although my new friend's new friend enjoyed hers. My gigantic portion of chicken Parmigiana with aubergine, mozzarella and seasonal vegetables was a really outstanding rendition of this old faithful, and also came with "potato poker chips", which, thankfully, seemed as far as the theming of supper to play was willing to go.
For anyone eager to see Sam West's brilliant production of Dealer's Choice - one with an interval that's perfectly judged to allow for a luscious chocolate brownie and a trio of sorbets, by the way - in theatre, as Ken Tynan probably used to say, timing is all - the play is transferring up west to Trafalgar Studios (the Whitehall Theatre as was). As for the Menier Chocolate Factory, this is such a seductively cool and atmospheric restaurant that I'm planning to go back alone, wearing an electric mauve, diamanté-studded Regency frock coat and gold lamé, thigh-length boots. Then I'll disgustedly sweep out of La Cage Aux Folles after five minutes and set about that à la carte menu.
Menier Chocolate Factory
Telephone 020 7378 1712
Address 51/53 Southwark Street, London SE1 1RU
