Saturday - aprés

Honestly, you’ll have to take my word for it, but it was a great atmosphere at the Anton bar. A lot of people I haven’t seen for a good while, all in one place. It nearly brought a tear to my eye, I can tell you. Beers, glueweins, shots, etc. I don’t really have to paint a picture here, do I? Well, we stayed here for innumerable toasts, until we’d adequately rehydrated ourselves (very important when one is on the slopes all day), whereupon we headed back to HP, where I dumped my luggage next to my bed, and also exchanged a firm an hearty handshake with Bruce, who’d arrived a little earlier. After showers, etc. we rendez-vous’d at Platzl, the bar attached to Pizza Pomadoro.

Platzl Bar
A two-floor bar attached to Pizza Pomadoro. There’s a corridor between the two, and a cloakroom with (invariably) and aussie guy stationed to enforce mandatory coat-checks for those headed into Platzl. Both establishments share the same menu and kitchen, but while PP has a ‘no bookings’ policy, to eat in Platzl, you’re strongly advised to book ahead. The downstairs area is mainly open around the bar, with a few high tables scattered around. On a Tuesday night, we were the only people there (although we may, actually, have been the reason for this). Upstairs is a purely seated affair, with a small bar, designed only as a pick-up point for waitresses to distribute drinks to diners. This area is supposed to be for people who have booked to eat, although judging by some of the low coffee tables, one would have to either lean forward to eat, or else have one’s plate on one’s lap. Not exactly conducive to fine dining for those who had the foresight to book ahead. If you’re not eating, you’ll be swiftly ushered downstairs.

Here, upstairs, we found Helen (Mrs. I) avec Jen, Lou and Sara, together with Dunc and Ruari. More hugs and tears all around (as I described Chris’s new yellow ski pants). So, this is where things get a little confusing. The waitress comes over to us and asks us to come downstairs, as they have a table ready for us. So, everyone jumps up, stomachs a-rumblin’, and follows her downstairs, where we find ourselves crammed around a small bar table with a couple of stools to share. Odd. So, I head back upstairs with Ruari to remonstrate with the staff, and find out just why we’d been kicked out of our perfectly suitable table, and into the bar. I don’t know whether it was the alcohol, or being over-excited at seeing my friends, but I think at one point I actually said, ‘So, you’ve actually lied to us, haven’t you?’. Jesus, when did I become so confrontational. Anyway, after much debate, we worked out that, actually, they had bookings for us at 10pm. Another classic case of miscommunication – something that would become a theme, as the week progresses. At this point, I think I shook the waitress’s hand, and apologised, although I’m sure she thinks I’m another belligerent tosser. Nice pizza, in any case.

After leaving there, it was on to the Piccadilly – which wouldn’t let Pren in as she was still wearing ski boots. As I suggested earlier, it’s like an Essex nightclub – ‘Sorry, no jeans, no trainers, shirts with collars’. Yeah, like that’s going to eliminate troublemakers? I refer you to the FA Premiership... So, we tried Bar Cuba. At this point, it should be noted, in time-honoured fashion, Dunc and Helen executed a neat sidestep and disappeared, presumably to catch up, since it had been a while since they’d seen each other... (actually, to be fair, Dunc had had about almost no sleep for two days, so we’ll let him off this once.) Bar Cuba. Bed. That’s pretty much it.