The Magic that is Maurio's

Wednesday 7th July 2004.

London, night three.

My first night down at Maurio's restaurant didn't get off to a flying
start. Martha and I were both tired and had begun to bitch at each
other. I walked through the door and was, at first, unimpressed with
the place. I didn't understand the way it worked and later, after a
brilliant night, still thought it could be improved upon. Maurio and I
debated this and now I agree with him totally.

One of the key factors that make Maurio's great is the word intimacy. I
confused this with claustrophobia. I expected grandeur after the build
up the place had received both from Martha and Maurio himself. What I
walked into was a compact basement thick with cigarette smoke
undulating with an uncomfortable hum of raucous conversation. The place
was packed, heaving. I made my way to one of only two available tables,
back against the wall, just the way I like it. Martha had other ideas
and sat, right in the middle of the room at a tiny table barely big
enough to put two plates on. I was less than pleased. Worse, she sat
with her back to the tiny, waitress's walkway which meant that I had to
excuse myself and manoeuvre my way through other diners and their tiny
tables to sit on the other side. I tried to squeeze into my three
inches of personal space. There just wasn't room to sit down. Matha
moved our table an inch to the left. The man beside us moved his an
inch to the right and one of the women directly behind me tried to move
hers but there was nowhere for it to go. I have lost a lot of weight
but, in that tiny enclosed space, I felt enormous. I remembered again
what it felt like to be big and cumbersome, a feeling that I thought I
had let behind me. My choice of clothing was wrong. I had on a long
black skirt with seven zips and fourteen different chains. Getting
through the tables I hooked up with virtually every man woman and
waitress in the place. I felt like a hippopotamus in a matchbox. It's
not a new feeling but it's one I didn't think I'd ever feel
again.

Finally, seated and squashed, I sulked with a gob on me. I was
stressed, I wanted a cigarette, Martha lit up but there's no way I felt
comfortable smoking while people around me, and no more than three
inches away, were still eating. I tried to cross my legs, the table
would have gone flying if it had anywhere to fly. I gave up and sat
uncomfortable and hemmed in. This wasn't my idea of fun at all. I was
'fat Sooz' again and I was a bitch.

I met Sacha. I couldn't help but meet Sacha, his back was touching
mine. He's something big in the music industry and is in charge of all
the hiring of musicians for the venue as well as being famous as a
musician in his own right. He's gorgeous. Maurio told him about my
books and made me tell him about them. It turns out that Sacha is
staying with Maurio and Armande Assante in Dubai later this month. He
said he would make sure that Armande hasn't forgotten about me, another
useful contact to have. Barry, the director/producer who has just
filmed with Sly Stallone and Antonio Banderras was in, he recognised
me, smiled and waved. Maurio himself, made the sea of table's part and
shuffled in with us. He was in with his girlfriend and some other
company. A small part of me broke through the discomfort and
awkwardness I was feeling and allowed me to feel a little of the
friendliness and warmth that is Maurio's.

A table became available, a six person table with a whole foot of
unused floor space surrounding it. Martha asked me if I wanted to move
to it. We told Henry, the floor manager, that we'd be happy to share
with other diners and moved. A waitress followed behind me unhooking me
from every chair that I hooked up to while I apologised to the smiling
people. Who had to stand, move or shuffle to let us pass. I felt like a
fool but didn't get the impression that anyone was laughing at me. We
sat, I breathed, finally I felt myself relaxing. We had a cigarette and
the smoke was taken away by strong fans situated round the room. I
didn't feel that I was inconveniencing anyone and I even managed a
smile. At last I was in the frame of mind to have an open attitude
about the place. I really had been a stroppy bitch for the previous
half an hour.

We ordered food. I left the choice to Martha. She decided on a Hawaiian
pizza and the chef's special salad that she said, was to die for. She
wasn't wrong. I didn't think I'd be able to eat a thing in front of all
those strangers, not the case at all. They had their own fish to fry.
They weren't interested in what I was doing. The food was excellent,
the best pizza and salad I've ever had and the beauty of it was that we
left the food on the table all night and just picked at it as we
wanted. It was perfect and the vodka flowed.

The entertainment began. Thursday night it's predominantly reggae.
There were two musicians, I don't know what they call themselves but
the black man is a famous reggae star. His real name is Ben and I was
introduced to him at the end of the night. What a lovely man. He had to
rush off early, well, one o clock, because he had a television gig the
following day. He knew about my books, Maurio had told everybody and he
wished me well with them.

When the music started I couldn't believe it when people got up to
dance around the tables. There just wasn't the room. People were eating
and yet, just inches away from their faces, someone was gyrating their
backside. I sat back to watch the people and that's when I got an
inkling of what Maurio's is all about. It's a place where ALL the stars
go. The walls are festooned with photo's of them. Martha pointed out
one of the actors from Hollyoaks. Film producers mingled with models.
People walking in off the street meshed with famous musicians and
everybody was talking. You don't go to Maurio's for a quiet meal, you
go to have fun and socialise, to hob-knob with people you've only seen
on the television, to soak up the ambiance. Strangers were talking to
the people at the next table. The people at that table were yelling to
someone three tables across. Everybody was everybody else's new friend.
It was amazing.

Brave now, I made my way to the ladies, when I returned four more
people were sitting at our table. Sebastian was, 'something in the
city'. He was the host, entertaining two friends and his sister. He
included us in his company as though it was the most natural thing in
the world. We talked all night, danced and had fun. Sebastian bought us
a bottle of champagne despite our protestations. Champagne flowed as
quickly as the vodka which was poured by the glass full and not served
by optic. Because we were houseguests of Maurio and because Martha is
thought very highly of down there, we got much larger glasses of voddie
than the rest of the clientele. I had to watch how much I was drinking,
not something that is usually a problem. The champagne was bloody
awful, I don't mean to sound ungrateful but it was. The cheapest bottle
of house champagne (the one we were presumably drinking) was thirty two
pounds a bottle. The dearest (on the menu), Crystal, was a hundred and
twenty pounds a bottle and they go through dozens of those a week, with
select, even more expensive bottles, for the exclusive customers.
However, most customers are just average people, spending a modest
amount and drinking larger by the pint.

Does it sound horrendous to you, dear diary? It's certainly unlike any
place I've ever been to before. You have to go with an open mind and a
friendly smile and you'll have the night of your life. At this point I
am going to use real names just this once. Because I post my diaries on
the internet and have a publication deal ongoing for them, I change
most names as they arise, mainly to avoid having the arse sued off me.
I enjoyed myself so much at 'Ciro's' that week that I am going to use
his real name and edit it out later. I advise everybody in London to
give it a go. It's Ciro's Pomodorro, Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge,
just down the road from Harrods. Ciro Orsini is one of the most
flamboyant men I know and you are sure of a great night. I'd hate to be
one of he waitresses there though.

We missed out on part of the pageantry that is Ciro's. Often long
queues form outside because the venues are intentionally small and only
seat so many people. He has many restaurants, thirteen in London but
the Knightsbridge one is the most popular because that's the one where
Ciro entertains with it being closest to his home. People queue for up
to two hours. They don't mind and chat amongst themselves as their
hunger builds. I can't imagine how awful that must be in the middle of
winter, or if I'd do it, but apparently there are hundreds every week,
who do. They watch for limousines pulling up and stars alighting and
swap gossip as they get nearer to the door. We walked straight in which
made me feel very guilty and we could see people wondering who we
were.

We stayed there until about two am, when we got a call from Maurio (and
back to false names) He wanted us home because he had guests and wanted
us to meet them. I still haven't a clue who the lady was. She was a
black South African lady. Maurio had told her all about my books and we
sat and talked for awhile back at the flat. She didn't stay long
because he was flying back Friday morning but she assured me that she'd
promote my books in South Africa. She must have had some influence
somewhere but I didn't like to ask who she was or what she does.

Again we never got to bed until the early hours. Dawn was breaking as I
closed my eyes and I didn't need any rocking. It's a different world
but people are just people whoever they are. At Maurio's there is no
dress code. You are encouraged to be individual. Maurio wore black
leather trousers that night, like me, he had chains and clasps attached
to them. He hooked his chains to mine and we were bound together in
friendship? and metal. It was a helluva night.