Eating oysters in bed is not easy. You slip one into your mouth hoping it will slide smoothly down in a single, stylish movement. Unfortunately, when lying horizontal, there isn't a down for it to slip, and it just ends up stuck in the back of your throat. You swallow furiously, like a cat with a furball, willing it to disappear, fighting the urge to gag.
Such are the hazards of being at the cutting edge of London's faddish dining scene. Snail porridge? Whatever. The latest novelty involves going to the Sheraton Park Tower hotel in Knightsbridge, then having your dinner in bed.
Not a bed in your own hotel room, with the TV on, crumbs on the duvet and a nice fluffy white dressing gown - that would be far too straightforwardly enjoyable to catch on with the thrill-seeking metropolitan foodie. Instead, the idea is to eat lying on a bed surrounded by about 30 other couples doing the same in a large and opulent function room.
The 'Bedroom Boudoir' nights have just arrived in London, and are inspired by the success of Amsterdam's Supperclub restaurant, which has been doing horizontal dining since 1999 and opened a sister restaurant in Rome two years ago. But while Rome has a clear history of eating lying down (about 2,700 years) and anything goes in Amsterdam, how will Londoners take to it? Doing any bed-based activity in public seems distinctly un-British.
Last weekend, when my girlfriend and I walked into Bedroom Boudoir's second ever night, there was a definite air of trepidation. Strangers were nervously peering out from their beds, wondering who else would come to something like this. Mood music played softly, rose petals were scattered over the beds and filters over the lightbulbs gave the whole room a red glow. Everything was designed to softly communicate romance. Unfortunately it also screamed 'swingers!'.
This impression wasn't helped when we found the table to our right occupied not by a couple but a group of four, seated on two beds pushed together. One man had a shiny black shirt, open low on his chest. The other had hair slicked back into a greasy ponytail. Their female companions seemed suspiciously giggly.
We were shown to our bed, a single divan pushed sideways against the wall with a small table in front. Oksana, our Lithuanian waitress, instructed us to remove our shoes and helped us into white hotel slippers. We lolled back, fluffy slippers in the air, while she unfurled our napkins on our laps, suddenly seeming more nurse than waitress. She poured our champagne, then set off to fetch us a selection from the grand buffet.
This wasn't your average midnight feast fare. The starters included giant brown crab claws, peppers stuffed with squid paella, and asparagus wrapped in smoked salmon. Main course was roast fillet of beef under a generous slab of foie gras. The problem is that, as with the oyster, this isn't really the kind of thing you can easily scoff lying down. Instead you end up constantly hauling yourself up from the bed to sit upright at the table, stuffing yourself with a few mouthfuls of foie gras, then collapsing backwards. To ease digestion, and take the bacchanalian scene one stage further, there is a reflexologist on hand to massage your feet between courses.
Around the room people were beginning to relax. While not actually getting under the duvet and into bed, some couples were definitely snuggling up. It was Friday night and after a hard day at work, people were relishing lounging about drinking champagne with their feet up and shoes off.
But for all the red lighting, rose petals and pink champagne, by 10pm the mood had become distinctly cosy rather than sexy. At Amsterdam's Supperclub, beds are arranged around a central space for outrageous cabaret - near-naked poetry readings, waitresses writhing in raw liver and the like. Staff wear rubber aprons and codpieces, the maître d' favours a ra-ra skirt. After dinner guests get up to dance and the room becomes, in one visitor's words, 'a Rocky Horror playpen'. Tattoos are etched, heads are shaved and joints are smoked.
Back in Knightsbridge, smoking in bed is very much forbidden. The maître' d is in black tie. There's no cabaret, no dancing and no mistaking that this is the function room of a posh hotel dolled up with spare beds for the night.
We had a pleasant, relaxing evening, with excellent food and delightful staff. But as we got up to leave, the man on our left had fallen asleep, snoring gently, his Bridgedale hiking socks dangling off the bed. We needn't have worried about the swinger suspects. This was a very British bedroom scene after all.
Factfile
Bedroom Boudoir nights at the Sheraton Park Tower, Knightsbridge, cost £60 per person, including a three-course meal and glass of champagne. The next are on 23/24 September, 21/22 October and 25/26 November. Details and reservations on 020 7290 7101.
