It all started on Monday when, on the way to have a quiet nightcap with the charming Brussel Crowe, I smashed my perfume bottle on the floor and was subsequently asked to leave a salmon shop/late night wine cellar because of my overpowering floral odour.  Just to give you some context, the salmon shop, where I had stopped to purchase a bottle of bubbly, reeks so badly of fish that Dolly Tatin starts awkwardly dry-retching every time we enter. Except this time, upon me entering the shop, the shop assistant started theatrically gagging before announcing in front of all the patrons  “Oh la la, mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, you steenk so budly of perfume zat I cunnot actually breaze.” 

So that was Monday. I Flowerbomb-ed a salmon shop.

Tuesday didn’t get much better. I had a lunch date with what turned out to be an unfairly good looking potential employer. Being my usual cool self, I arrived late, worked myself into a total fluster and, despite the fact it was only 2 degrees outside, proceeded to break into an uncontrollable stress-induced sweat.  I told myself it was one of those things only I could notice. Until that is, he reached over, patted my arm, and said “Don’t worry, one time when I was modelling for Burberry, I sweated so much from nerves that by the time the shoot was done my trench was dark brown instead of beige.”

So…probably didn’t get the job. No sweat.

But the week all really came to a head, pardon the pun, on Wednesday when I walked into the local bakery to purchase my daily bread.  At first I was puzzled as to why the baker giggled, blushed and then apologised when he handed me the last remaining baguette on the shelf. And then I saw it.

And with that, I went straight online and booked a one way ticket to London – that safe haven across the sea, where the shop assistants are ingratiating, potential employers are not part-time Burberry models, and the bread is un-amusingly square.

My first night in town I set out to the newly-opened, brightly coloured beach shack style restaurant/cocktail bar The Rum Kitchen in Notting Hill for a Caribbean feast with sister Sienna Millet and friends Prawn Connery and Hilary Shank.

Whilst making my way through a deliciously potent ‘Grog 349‘ and an equally robust ‘Rumbustion‘ cocktail, we polished off some surprisingly addictive plantain chips with spicy salsa, some less notable chilli squid rings and some very impressive saltfish fritters with grilled lime and chilli jam.

For mains there was a choice of, amongst others, Supreme Jerk Chicken with Bubble and Squeak, Pan Fried Sea Bass with a Frenzy Salsa, Mutton Curry with Rice and Peas, and Mama’s Seafood Gumbo with Homemade Cornbread.

My rum-impaired judgment led me to order, of all things, the Mutton Curry with a side of slaw. I hate the word mutton; it has about as much charm as a potato ‘smear’ or a ‘moist’ chicken. I don’t know what I was thinking – I guess I was holding out hope that it was lamb dressed as mutton. Nevertheless, despite its rather unappealing colour, and its lack of spice (the waitress did pre-warn me it was ‘Notting Hill’ spicy not ‘my mama’ spicy), the old sheep was not so bad.

Sienna Millet and Hilary Shank went for the Jerk Chicken on the Bone  with a side of buttery spinach, which was very tasty.  But the real show stopper was Prawn Connery’s Supreme Jerk Chicken – a beautifully tender chicken breast with a deliciously dark spicy Caribbean gravy.  I was very jealous.

What a surprise, the Supreme Jerk won my heart once again.

We were too full for dessert (I think it was the slaw that broke the camel’s back), so we decided to call it a night and catch a cab home… three hours later, after running into old friends from our hometown, crashing a tinder date and downing an excessive amount of rum at the heaving bar, Sienna Millet, Prawn Connery, Hilary Shank and I we were to be found crumping to 90’s hip hop in the basement club with a bizarre mix of messy Mayfair suits and Jenny’s from the Block.

The Rum Kitchen; taking you from work, to jerk to twerk in one fabulous evening.

xoxo

Paris Stilton