Food | 1 October 2011

The Playboy Club on Park Lane was re-opened by Hugh Hefner in June, like an ancient bra he had suddenly remembered was lying under his bed. It has a casino, a bar, a barber’s shop, and a restaurant. My being here is pure masochism, and I should really write the review in the style of Stephen King’s The Shining — Red Rum, Red Rum! But here I am, with my boyfriend. He had to telephone to get a table, because in theory, it is Members Only — Frank Sinatra, James Bond, the King of Bhutan. But they let him in, so it isn’t.

We go in. It is clean, expressionless, like a movie actress. ‘Normally a bunny would show you upstairs,’ says the girl behind the desk, ‘but she is on a tour.’ Like a Big Bus Tour of the counter-counter sexual revolution? A man makes me open my bag. What does he think is in it? Gloria Steinem? And up we go, through a bar showing TV sport and an empty casino, with bunny girls hiding behind roulette tables, and into the restaurant. It is open-plan, and it has sheer curtains with bunny-girl silhouettes on them, so they look like they are squatting. It is full of men shouting. They all resemble Hyman Roth, in varying states of decrepitude, and they are all eating steak.

Over comes the waiter. He tells my boyfriend the specials, and asks him what he wants to drink. He does not ask me what I want to drink and he does not tell me the specials, so I have no idea what they are, and I cannot tell you, and we will never know now. The menu, which I am allowed to see, is surf and turf, baby food for very large babies.