DUCK & WAFFLE: A SUPERFICIAL REUNION

There is always a planner in a friendship group. This person is the one who works out the logistics of every social occasion, the travel agent, the restaurant booker, and the one who tells everyone what to do – in my friendship group – that would be me.

It’s not because I’m a more organised woman than Amy, Hermione, or Sausage, but because I’m the most superficial. Outfits, the ambience of a restaurant, and airlines are all things I overvalue in life. So, for the past 20 years, I’ve told my friends when and where to go, and they have done just that.

Sausage’s visit from America has been long-awaited. We all went to school together, but she moved back to Washington in her early twenties. It’s been over 8 years since the four of us were in the same room.

As an American, she requested a restaurant with a view, so I knew there was no better place than Duck & Waffle. It’s a rooftop restaurant near Liverpool Street that has a panoramic view of the city. It’s one of those places where you name-drop in conversations to elevate yourself.

Restaurants that seem to want more money, also seem to offer less freedom, Duck & Waffle is no exception. They have a list of rules which you must follow to eat there:

Pay £20 per person deposit, which you will lose if you cancel within 48 hours of the booking.
Arrive 5 minutes early.
Don’t be 15 minutes late or they will give away your table.
Smart casual wear only. They can turn you away if they don’t think you’re dressed properly.
2 hour limit at the table.
No big cameras.
No changeable lenses on the camera.
No cash.

It’s all worth it though – so you can say you’ve been there.

I had booked it for 7:15 on Friday night of the bank holiday weekend. My outfit was laid out, all black with pink kitten heels. We were travelling the next day for a girl’s holiday, and so I had my bag packed, ready to take to Amy’s. Everything was going to plan, until Great Western Rail disturbed everything.

There is a broken bridge between Oxford and Didcot, which meant I had to take a bus to Didcot from Oxford, then a slow stopper to Ealing Broadway, then I had to walk 20 minutes to Amy’s with a bag, drop off the bag, then walk back to Ealing Broadway to get the Elizabeth Line to Liverpool Street. By the time I was in Ealing wheeling a bag up a hill, I realised I wasn’t going to make the table by 7:15.

If I am the planner, Sausage is the star. At school, she was the actress, the singer, the Head Girl, and the winner of most sports races – but like most stars, is never on time. Ever.

So, I rang Hermione, and begged her to be at the table at 7:15. Hermione assured me she’ll be there early, as all she had to do was cycle down the road from St Paul’s. I sighed with relief as I got onto the Elizabeth Line.

When I came up the escalator at Liverpool Street, however, my signal came back, and things had changed.

I wondered how my 30-year-old friends had not worked out how to dress themselves. Meanwhile, I’m on tiptoes on an escalator so that my heels don’t get caught in the gaps.

I ran in my heels to the restaurant and arrive at 7:30, I gave the bouncer my name, then added, ‘I’m with the cyclist.”

“Uhuh…” he replied, unamused, and then unclasped the rope to let me in.

Hermione and Sausage were at a table that was surrounded by women dressed for Instagram. Hermione had changed into an outfit that had been stuffed in her backpack all day. A long skirt, and a t-shirt with a picture of a boat with L’Hermione written beneath it.

“It’s a real boat!” she said, proudly.

The food was ordered. I had bread and vegetables because, understandably, at a place that serves a signature dish of duck and waffle, they weren’t too keen on plant-based twits. The others however ordered the duck and waffle, whilst agreeing that it was overpriced.

We only took up half of the 2-hour limit, because Sausage realised, she needed to pack. As we left Hermione stopped by the front desk because the waitress had taken her flowers away, as they were getting in the way. The woman at the front desk went away to find the flowers, and by the time she returned, Hermione had put her helmet on, ready to cycle home.