I’ve been refused entry to bars for many reasons in my drinking life. Too young, too old, too drunk, wrong sex, wrong shoes, not smart enough, not cool enough. But now that the London bars (those that are open) are empty and desperate for business, there’s only one requirement – a normal temperature.
It’s Friday night. The streets are deserted. The phrase “it’s like Piccadilly Circus” has never been less appropriate for describing a place teeming with the scurrying hoards. Most of London is still in self-enforced semi-lockdown. Unready for the great indoors. Nervous of drinking in bars and eating in restaurants. Of travelling on the tube or the bus.
The inbound (rush hour) tube is quiet. People are doing what they did in the pre-pandemic era. Staying as far away from other human beings as possible. Filling the corner seats first. Then the middle ones. Pretty much everyone is wearing a mask. Pretty much everyone is surreptitiously glancing around to reassure themselves that everyone else is wearing one.
Wasn’t everything supposed to magically reopen on Saturday 4th July? According to statistics it didn’t. According to statistics, just 40% of bars and 17% of restaurants did. From what I see tonight, statistics (for once) are right. Ed and I are disappointed. We’d planned to mark the occasion by splashing some of our unspent lockdown cash at the Ritz. But it’s closed.
Bar Américain is open though. Usually it’s rammed on a Friday night. On any night. But not this night. We share it with just four other temperature-checked twosomes. The cocktail shaker silent. The bartenders busily running around with Detol wipes and spray bottles.
A couple of drinks. Then we head for Chutney Mary’s. Posh Indian is our favourite. We’ve been salivating at the thought of its return for weeks. I snapped up a table the instant the booking system reopened. Submitting our names, addresses and telephone numbers as requested. Repeating the information in reply to a follow-up email. Without these details, it seemed, our booking would be “void”. As it goes, I needn’t have bothered booking at all. It’s quiet. We could simply have walked in off the street.
A stricter set of rules than I’ve seen elsewhere. Chutney Mary’s greets us with our second thermometer of the night. A nervous moment as we stare at the screen. But it’s ok. Two glasses of Sancerre have even lowered Ed’s temperature from his earlier (satisfactory) reading. Automated hand sanitiser. A notice in the window that looks a bit like a Michelin award proudly states that Chutney’s is “COVID secure” (whatever that means). Staff wearing uncomfortable-looking plastic visors. There’s a vague feeling of being served by an astronaut. Our waiter constantly fiddles with his glasses (which are crushed against his face by the visor). Food as yummy as ever.
Way too many instructions on how to use a toilet. Posters outside the door. Inside the door. Facing you on the back of the cubicle door. “Close the seat before flushing”, I read at least three times. And instantly forget. Because using the toilet is like riding a bike. You do it on autopilot. I turn and close the seat before leaving.
Homebound on the tube there are many masks. Around people’s necks. In their hands. Across their foreheads. Strapped to their arms. Covering their mouths but not their noses. The British public is struggling to get its head around face-coverings. Or at least those ready to brave the tube are.
So, Londoners! This is a unique moment in time. The moment when we can freely enter all those hard-to-get-into restaurants and bars. If they’re open. If we can get our toilet etiquette right. And if our temperatures are below 37.2oC.