I haven't used the word 'brunch' since my other life in Mauritius the chapter of which more or less closed some thirty years ago. There, another hectic week over, after mass on Sundays, we would drive down to the San Géran Hotel with our two girls, in time for brunch and lots of swimming. One day, the then GM, Paul J. Jones, having heard me exchange a short conversation with an Italian tourist in the lounge, approached me to see if I would teach some basic Italian to his staff. I explained to him that my Italian was only A Level standard. "Well, that's good enough," and he proposed I go down on Saturdays with the family. He gave us a family suite and we would stay there until Sunday evening. I would teach two staggered hours on the Saturday and another two on Sunday, and everyone was happy.
I had put on quite a few kilos (what's new?) as apart from the meals members of the kitchen brigade would come to the conversation lessons with some new delicacy from the kitchen. I had no choice but to eat it. How could I offend them?
So, when I was invited to brunch at the Phoenix restaurant, Hotel Phoenicia, this piece of nostalgia came to mind.
I went a couple of Saturdays ago with an old and erudite friend of mine - and of Malta.
The brunch table was lavish and has been created to seduce not only the eyes, but mostly the appetite. A thought flashed through my mind as I approached it: on Monday I had started yet another diet. What to do but leave it at the door to be picked up later.
I have come to an age when I accept the loss of looks and the neglect of my body that are by-products of being over-stretched and give myself occasional treats of chocolately fudge, biscuits and a trashy magazine. And let us say nothing about my compulsive relationship with Kit Kat. My dream of turning into a cyclist in tight lycra was abandoned long ago. My aim now is to replace my undulating rolls of fat and Michelin tyres into a harmonious obesity. This can only be done by eating less and walking since I never had a penchant for press-ups and the dreaded gym.
We pondered over the menu - and the buffet table - and my tastebuds had geared themselves up to eat. I glanced at the food. The portents were good. No, very good. The assorted fresh and carved fruits and the winter fruit compote beckoned. The selection of cereals included granola with condiments and muesli and yoghurt. I was constrained to take a holiday from my porridge that morning, no sacrifice I assure you. I sighed an inward sigh of relief.
There were French butter croissants generously laden with smoked salmon or Parma ham; brioches with orange marmalade and chocolate spread. And a beautiful honeycomb oozing honey. I hadn't seen one for a long time.
The cold cuts looked tempting and the chicken liver paté was served with redcurrant jelly; soused herring with apple; poached turkey breast with homemade mayonnaise and hot smoked salmon... and on and on it went.... a variety of cheeses served with Medjool dates, grapes and chutney... and lovely bread to go with it all. I tried to keep in mind that all this enthusiastic interest in food would only increase my girth but how could I tear myself away from all these delights?
But fare on the lavish buffet table was just the beginning. There was a tureen of piping hot soup and one could select a hot dish and a dessert from the a la carte menu.
Six hot dishes were on offer: mushrooms on toast, poached egg, and sauce Hollandaise... A savoury crèpe was served with scrambled eggs, ham and asparagus. You could also have confit duck leg, creamed Savoy cabbage and bacon. Breakfast was turning into lunch.
I was tempted by the Corned Beef hash and fried egg which I hadn't eaten for years, since the days I was lodging with Anna Wing Davies in London. It was a favourite of hers and she dished it out to her student lodgers regularly, so soon it became a favourite of mine as well.
Also on the menu was baked eggs with piperade and Parma ham and last but not least grilled beef sirloin with tomato and chips. The meat was cooked as directed by my demanding friend - the right pink.
A thought crossed my mind - how lucky we are to have so much lovely food to eat even if we unknowingly perhaps, carve our graves with our teeth. I had read, there were years when French refugees in England ate cats. They deplored the esteem in which cats were held and the hue and cry raised every time a foreigner was caught eating a cat, the poor man's venison. Imagine the row on Facebook if this were to happen here.
I opted to skip a hot dish, apart from the soup, and instead unashamedly made a beeline, once again, to the buffet table. There my appetite was sated on curls of transculent prosciutto, flaky pink salmon and more paté.
Etc. Etc. Etc. as the king of Siam would say.
Dessert was a choice of four: Saturday sundae Melba, chocolate and pear brownie, a variety of ice cream and, the one we both selected - apple and frangipane tart, which was truly delicious... served with more prosecco which continued to cheer us up immensely.
The service was excellent and none of those who so graciously served us ever let their courtesy slip. They were cheerful and knowledgeable too. The service at the Phoenicia remains unashamedly old-fashioned; a place where you still get the feeling that nothing is too much trouble.
Surely, as they say in marketing, the Phoenicia have identified a niche. I don't know of any other place which serves brunch here especially in such a perfect ambience and at an unhurried pace.
The Phoenix, especially since it was a beautiful, sunny morning, evoked an atmosphere of tranquillity and morning freshness.
We agreed, my friend and I, as we drained our last glass of Prosecco, that brunch at the Phoenix had been a deeply satisfying experience, away from yobs, jobs, slobs and junk food terrain. After all the Phoenicia has been as revered as the Gideon bible since Lord and Lady Strickland thought of it way back in 1939. It has always been an oasis of glamour in a desert of tracksuits and trainers.
At Euros 35, beverages included, it is worth more than a second visit.
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