by The tables were on a wooden deck, overlooking the sea. Waiters hurried between tables, carrying magnums of rosé and silver platters of oysters.
There was something called a Tiki Punch listed on the cocktail menu which consisted of a good slug of rum and a few drops of bitters. There was an in-house DJ and, at some point in the evening, people got up to dance and twirl their napkins above their heads.
Where do you think this lunch place was? Mykonos or Ibiza, perhaps? Or any other glamorous Mediterranean hangout where people gather to eat shellfish in their bathing suits and drink pink wine as water?
You probably wouldn’t realize a small bay just opposite Lymington, on the Isle of Wight. No disrespect to the island; it doesn’t usually rank with the likes of the Balearics or the Aeolian islands as part of the hot summer destinations.
It’s called The Hut, although it doesn’t look much like a hut. Located next to a strip of white beach huts in Colwell Bay, it looks more like the kind of minimalist joint you might find on a Greek island: white parasols and rattan shades hang over tables that look out across the Solent .
I had never heard of it but when three old school friends suggested a weekend trip to the New Forest a few months ago, the sweetest of them said we had to go there for lunch. “Let’s put a rib across, it’s the best,” Sarah insisted.
A rib? I assumed we were going away for a peaceful weekend walking and photographing wandering ponies.
I wasn’t expecting the kind of high-octane jolly that tech billionaires go in for, but I was blown away and we got on the waiting list for a table. A waiting list that starts building in February, apparently, when bookings open for the summer. You can get a bus from Yarmouth to the restaurant, Sarah informed us, but it was more fun to take a rib.
More than 80 percent of the restaurant’s punters arrive by boat, I’ve since learned, dropping anchor in the harbor and being picked up by one of the restaurant’s tenders. Who needs Capri, anyway?
If you don’t want a boat, you can also helicopter in because they have an arrangement with a mansion and its helicopter nearby, and they will pick you up from the chopper in Protector.
We were on this waiting list for three months and we were only lucky because a slot was canceled at 3.30pm last Saturday. “It’s too late for lunch, isn’t it?” I texted the other three the day before we were due, worried about the long stretch that would be left after breakfast.
What kind of time is that for lunch? We are no longer part of Europe. “That’s great,” Sarah replied, ignoring me, “we’ll get you some ice cream on the way.”
She found a local man called Tony who owned not a rib but a cruiser, and although none of us knew what a cruiser was, he was booked for the 20 minute ride across from the mainland. “The prosecco will be waiting for me,” he texted Sarah, and I felt a sense of loneliness again. What was this place: a restaurant or a night club?
A mix of both, I’d say, after spending several hours there last weekend. When we arrived at our teatime slot, the Marquess and Marchioness of Milford were just finishing up at a long table, along with their daughter-in-law, Cressida Bonas, and we passed others in the restaurant’s embroidered sun hats. , napkins already swirl in the air like flaming cowboys.
The DJ, a young man named Gilo, was busy in a booth in the corner. The rain, mercifully, had given him a break, and as the first bottle of rosé appeared at our table and the sun bounced on the waves in front of us, I thought: yes, okay, this is not bad
Several years ago, my sister, stepmother and I were on holiday near Naples. One morning, we risked our lives by driving along the Amalfi coast in second gear and happened upon a small seaside restaurant by accident.
Bougainvillea hung over the terrace, there was a faint bunch of grilled prawns and a bug of very attentive Italian waiters who called us all “Signorina”. I also seem to vaguely remember barefoot children running around, but maybe I’m confusing this bucolic scene with a Fellini film.
We smugly congratulated ourselves on finding the perfect secret until a superyacht appeared in the bay and a gargantuan flower arrangement was ceremoniously placed on the table next to us. Moments later, Sir Elton John and David Furnish landed for lunch, along with Sir Michael Caine and his wife, Shakira. Ah, this place was not so undiscovered, after all.
The Hut felt a little like that. A not so hidden gem. We ordered oysters and a handful of seafood to share with fries, and my wine glass was getting more and more smeared with garlicky fingerprints as the music grew louder and some people took to their seats to dance. You may feel overwhelmed.
I would have done it before, but on a sunny afternoon, sitting with three of my oldest friends, we discussed a wide range of topics including but not limited to: marriage, IVF, our parents, our jobs , my new puppy and the importance of flossing.
This is not intended to be an advertisement. It’s just a celebration of a long summer lunch with good friends on a leisurely sunny table. And the other great thing about long lunches in June is that you can still be in bed before it gets dark. You see how fun I can be when I relax?
We ate and drank like a Tudor feast before taking part in a performance It’s raining menalongside a table of other people who were there for 60th Birthday. The Brits may be in trouble for their own behavior abroad but I’m not sure some people are carrying on much better on home turf. Even quite posh ones.
We smuggled in a bottle of rosé for the return journey and sang all the way back to Lymington. Poor Tony. You don’t have to go all the way to Magaluf, you know. It’s quite fat in Hampshire.
