In a new series, we take London’s most compelling figures to lunch with one of our writers. They choose the restaurant; we foot the bill. Laurence Fox, of the Fox acting dynasty, found fame on the ITV series Lewis, though an appearance on Question Time has propelled him to greater infamy still. The actors’ union Equity criticised Fox and were then forced to retract their statement. Cue mass resignations. With his Netflix series White Lines cancelled after just one series, what does the future hold for the Brexiteer Old Harrovian?
Where to take Laurence Fox for some lunch was something I had thought upon for some time. I reckoned that it might be interesting, as he lives locally, to dine at Fladda Fish and Chips on Camberwell Church Street: unimpeachable British fried food in SE5 (and, of course, that the bill would meet with approval over at accounts). It would be a chance, I hoped, to see the actor-turned-musician-turned-activist dine among the young, politically active generation he decries to his 230,000 Twitter followers. This proposal of mine was given short shrift via email:
no lets go to scotts you’re paying aren’t you?
So, mask in pocket, I walked over to Mount Street from Green Park, arriving to see the last embers of summer playing out over the terrace of Scotts. The boulevardiers of Mayfair sat outside, chugging cigarettes, as dishes of sole meunière were whisked to their tables by the quiet, uniformed staff. I was shown to a booth inside and made a note of the clientele, purposefully attired for performative fine dining. My guest arrived ten minutes later, not quite tardy, but not on time, tall and aquiline with sunglasses holding back fine blonde hair.
I had consulted the menu online the night before. I conceived of an idea of how to have this meal while also keeping my job, but this plan was enflamed by disaster five minutes later: 30 grams of Beluga caviar, accompanied by crème fraîche and blinis made their discreet entrance at our table, paired with a chilled bottle of 2012 Pol Roger. I had muttered something, maybe about reisling, probably about Jura, but: here we were, and I gamely made the best of what was probably the last meal of my career as a journalist.
‘Laurence,’ I began unsurely, ‘where do you stand on defunding the BBC’
‘Do you follow me on Twitter?’
I demurred that I did not, but that I believed the magazine did indeed follow him on Twitter.
